If We Should Part
by Writz24
Summary: The war is coming, and Blaise Zabini might be the only one who knows it. Growing desperate and already distrustful of others, he forms a plan to save the world. This plan is risky, however, and just might land him in Azkaban . . . forever. -Complete-
1. Even the Fool Plays a Part

**Hey guys, this is my first fanfic ever, and I'm so excited to get to share it with everyone. I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.**

**Chapter One: _Even the Fool Plays a Part_**

Most people wake up to an alarm clock, while some people wake up to a rooster crowing. I, however, have the abrupt pleasure of being awoken by the thud of a heavy object as it lands directly on my face.

"Bloody . . ." I groan, opening my eyes swiftly and assessing for danger. It's then that I hear a snicker to my right.

"Malfoy!" I shout, irritated at losing the small amount of sleep I'm able to get these days, the sleep I was counting on before arriving at our destination. Draco plays the part of innocence and sticks his lip out in a sympathy that I know from experience is fake.

"Oh you poor baby. What's the matter?" Though he means it to be in jest, this statement sounds forced and almost toneless. I sigh inwardly. I didn't imagine that he would be this depressed already. No matter; I've never been one to back away from a challenge.

"You stupid git . . ." I mutter almost completely under my breath as I pick up the textbook that was thrown at me from the floor. It's a Transfiguration textbook, one that Draco and I have been studying intensely for the past few hours; but it's so immensely boring that I fell asleep.

"At least tell me we're there so that waking me wasn't entirely pointless." I kind of figure that he wants me awake to distract him, but one can never be completely sure of anything when it comes to the Malfoy family, Draco being no exception. I know there's a twinge of annoyance in my voice, but it's hard to rid myself of the tone with the realization that I'm are only going to get a whopping three hours of sleep today, and entirely without coffee—the substance that I refuse to tell Draco I drink, not that he would know what it is.

Apparently, my whining amuses him, because he cracks a small smile. "Nope, I just saw an opportunity that I couldn't pass up. Besides, we should be studying." He suddenly sits up straight, scrunches up his face, and—with his best McGonagall accent—says, "Aren't you at all concerned about your future?"

I chuckle, remembering the night we were caught sneaking back late at night from the Quidditch Pitch during fifth year. "I see your McGonagall impersonation is still spot-on; but you and I both know that I can and will pass my NEWTs and get whatever job I happen to want when that time comes."

I instantly realize my mistake as I see Draco's face fall into the solemn look again, the look that tells me he's feeling the weight of the world. My face falls too, as I see the utterly bleak future for my life, the future that I'm choosing even as we speak. Draco's not to know this though, so I make an interjection to both our thoughts.

"Normally I'd leave your face to its natural frowning state, but today is no occasion for such things. We're back! By golly we're back! The troublesome two, the dangerous duo, the petrifying purebloods . . ." I trail off when I notice the lightness return to Draco's features. Then I figure he'll be fine and so I lay back down, hoping to add a fourth hour to my daily sleep collection.

I barely close my eyes before I feel a hard jab on my right upper arm. "You bloody git!" I shout, feeling a bit angry from the pain. My attempted angry glare doesn't last too long though, and it turns into a bemused frown, a look that seems to please Draco.

"We really need to work on your poker face, Zabini."

"Yeah, well not everyone can have the curse-in-disguise stone face of a Malfoy, Draco." I retort, playing up to my next move. "And I don't need a poker face when I have my rugged good looks."

_There is no way he can be depressed while I do this_, I think to myself.

I instantly contort my features into what I know is a very bad smolder. I complete the look with a dramatic toss of my non-existent luscious locks over my shoulder, a suggestive wink, and a diva pose.

Draco bursts out laughing, a deep laugh that I know is real. I mentally pat myself on the back for not falling back to sleep.

"Well Blaise, I for one am looking forward to the upcoming year." I know that is a lie, a lie that I will have to agree to. There is absolutely no way that either of us could be looking forward to the rest of the year, and I am barely managing to keep him happy now. Still, I nod in agreement and allow him to continue.

"Just think . . ." he smiles briefly, "no more brushing Floo powder off my clothes, no more of your boxers laying around because you're a disgusting slob . . ."

I stick my tongue out before adding to the list. "No more earplugs to cover up my mother's . . . disturbing . . . habits."

"No more of your atrocious singing as you attempt to cover up your mother's habits."

"—Disturbing habits."

"No more lying to my father about where I am all day." There it is. That's exactly why I've been trying to avoid reminiscing about our past . . . it isn't exactly what you would call inviting. In fact, we only became friends in our first year because neither of us was willing to go home to our parents. His father scared him, and my mother disturbed me as I'm pretty sure that on top of being married only over a dozen times; she brings home a different man almost every week, and they don't seem to know sound-proofing spells. So it's safe to say that I knew a lot more than I should have for being so young, and could be perfectly content with not knowing even now.

"No stupid mother asking if I've had friends over again without her permission, though she gave me permission every time. I just asked her when she was in close proximity to her very disturbing habits."

"No more lying to them both . . . me with my superb poker face and you with your what was it? Oh yes, 'rugged good looks'"

"Aren't we jealous." The air around us is still too somber, so I prepare to do what is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing I've ever done.

_It's all for the show_, I tell myself, _all for the show_.

I immediately flip my hair and smolder, winking even more dramatically than before. I curl my lips in a smile as I begin to pose for invisible cameras; ripping my shirt off as I've seen done so many times before at my house by random strangers. Then I slide my hands across the muscles in my abdomen and begin posing for "sexy pictures". I might regret this later, but I'll never regret being responsible for Draco smiling in these dark times.

Draco, as expected, starts laughing as he shields his eyes.

_Not that I have anything to be ashamed of_, I grin, glad that I worked out for all those summers like I did.

Suddenly Draco's laughter is cut short and I can almost feel the chill in the air. "Potter," he spits harshly. I freeze as I see the glare of the one person that could ruin all my attempts at light-heartedness: Harry James Potter. Harry starts laughing and pointing . . . at me.

_Crap_. I feel myself blush deeply, not having wanted anyone to see me doing this. I wonder if this is how my mother feels when I walk in on her on "accident". (Really, I just want her to stop so that I can get some peace and quiet, as loud singing and earplugs only work for so long.)

"Malfoy," Harry stiffly nods, "You've stooped lower than I thought if your idea of eye candy is Zabini with his shirt off."

Maybe this upsets Draco, but I am mortified. I had expected to be able to hold onto at least _some _of my reputation for the rest of the year. However, I can feel Draco's glare turn from frost to ice, practically boring right into Harry's soul. Then Draco glances at me and adjusts his expression to a smirk.

"Well it would appear that you can't keep _your_ eyes off him, Potter. Does the Weaslette know? Or perhaps I should inform her and everyone else of your little . . . secret." Now it's Harry's turn to be embarrassed and he turns a shade of scarlet that I imagine matches my own before storming off in a huff.

It's now that I remember to put my shirt back on, and I quickly stuff myself back into it. "Gee thanks, Malfoy . . ." I sigh dramatically, "Now everyone will think that Blaise Zabini is the secret lover of the Boy-Who-Lived . . . no girl will ever approach me! My chances are blown!"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic." Draco's slightly amused, but also a little irritated that I didn't thank him for trying to save face back there. I can tell because he doesn't have on his mask of sorts that depicts any emotion he decides would be best.

"And I suppose that's what I'll tell you the next time you come running away from your father to my house."

_You bloody idiot_! I think to myself, regretting every word, but it's too late.

Draco's hands clench into fists and I can almost feel steam rising from his head. I am about to be punched in the face, which I guess will take care of my girl troubles all by itself, but I don't really want to practice my healing skills today, which happen to be terrible. So, I do the first thing that comes to mind and start laughing. It's forced at first, but quickly I discover that the situation really is quite funny and begin to really lose myself in the laughter.

"Now you're laughing at me?" He looks even more angry, but at this point I really can't stop myself, tumbling onto the floor with tears streaming down my face, my sides burning from the heaving of my chest. Draco just stands and stares at me in contempt until I finally feel calm enough to answer him.

"What?" he demands, cocking his head to the side in a gesture that makes my laughter only worse. This time it's several minutes before I regain my composure.

"I'm sorry," I manage roughly, "It's just . . ." more tears begin to fall, and I feel a grin sweeping over my face. It feels so good to laugh like this, but I don't get to keep it up any longer because Draco hoists me from the floor by my shoulders and levels our faces.

"What?" he demands, his face dropping into one of those signature unreadable masks.

I have the good sense to stop laughing. "It's just the looks on both your faces . . . priceless! Merlin, am I really that ugly? I mean I know I'm not gay, but it's nice to know how appalling I am to all the men out there. You both looked so disgusted . . . like you tell a five-year-old that someday he's going to want to kiss girls. And here I thought this year was going to be uneventful . . ." I start laughing a bit again, inwardly hitting myself for mentioning the future again, so I fix my blunder with an addition to my little speech.

"I hope Potter starts telling people, though, because I will gladly take shirtless pictures with anyone who'd like them. Heck, I'll throw one in for you and Potter for free! I'll even sign it!" Then I wink at him again, wondering how on earth I ended up learning something useful from my mother. I throw in a smolder with another hair flick.

Draco just shakes his head, smiling and probably wondering how I got to be such a hopeless bloke.

* * *

The Sorting Ceremony and first meal at Hogwarts usually go off without a hitch, but though I am the only one who knows it, this year isn't going to come close to any sense of the word "normal". Of course, there had been the year that the Chamber of Secrets opened, but that is a story for another time, and even that year can't hold a candle to this one. I take a deep breath in the quiet murmurs of the beginning of the Sorting.

_Probably one of the last deep and calm breaths I'll be taking in years_, I think to myself before shaking my head clear of such thoughts. Now is no time to give in to depression.

What happens now I secretly hope will go down in Hogwarts History and give people something to laugh about when the fog lifts of what I'm sure will be a war. Maneuvering myself onto my knees, I place both elbows neatly on the table and rest my chin in my hands, mimicking a pose that I've often seen a lovestruck girl practicing. Now I point my gaze directly at Harry Potter and stick out my bottom lip in a pout, waiting for Potter to look over. The instant he does I smile softly and slowly, sighing so loudly that the Sorting Hat must sing louder to drown me out.

_You're screwed, Potter_.

Taking my sweet time, I press a hand firmly against my lips and eye it longingly as I drag it away and blow the kiss smoothly off my hand and in the direction of Gryffindor table and the Boy-Who-Lived. When enough time passes that I figure the "kiss" could've made it to him, I wink the most over-the-top wink I have winked in my entire life.

Potter looks absolutely mortified, pulling the collar of his robe as if it were three sizes too small and trying his best to look away, but the struggle is pointless. I have a knack for making eye contact with people when they least desire it, yet another skill I've picked up to scare away my mother's . . . friends. Every time Harry dares to look back I blow another kiss, even going so far as stick my tongue out with one, dragging it across my hand before blowing it away, a sickening expression of utmost devotion plastered on my face.

At this point Draco—who is sitting beside me—acknowledges my antics and half-heartedly tries to pull me into the position that normal people sit in, though I can feel a slight shake in his hand that gives away his silent laughter. Beside Potter, Ron Weasley has a contorted look of rage on his cranberry-red face as Hermione Granger attempts to console him, though when I steal glances in their direction I notice that like Draco, she's barely keeping her laughter contained as she tries not to look at me.

_Onto phase two_.

I pull my wand from my pocket, being careful never to break my gaze from Harry. I quickly transfigure my fork into a flower which I stare at longingly. Then I pluck a single petal from the stem and mouth, "He loves me." The next petal plucked brings me to mouth, "He loves me not."

At this point I can feel the stares of half the students in the Great Hall, the other half either taking a great interest in their potatoes or ignoring me entirely. Even the staff is staring, which I can tell because I hear Trelawny whisper a bit too loudly, "I didn't know that he had such an . . . an admiration for Harry." But at this point a few stares aren't enough to phase me and I continue to pluck petals until there are none remaining. Then I stand up on my seat, decide to take a risk just for the heck of it, and step up onto the Slytherin table, careful not to step on any food.

I take one final longing look at Potter before I mouth three words slowly and carefully, ensuring that everyone else sees them. "I love you." After the words leave my mouth, I force tears into my eyes and let out a less-than-dignified wail before leaping from the table and rushing out of the great hall, not bothering to wipe away my almost impressive amounts of tears.

As soon as I'm safely down out of sight I drop the act and just saunter around like I own the place, which I do not, but it's not often that I'm completely alone. I waltz with purpose up the steps and onto the seventh floor, wishing my way into the Room of Requirement where I'm to meet my accomplice for the next phase, phase three. As I told her to be, Hermione Granger is waiting for me. And how did I gain Hermione Granger as an accomplice, you ask? Well, _that _is complicated.

* * *

It was the last day of school last year, and everyone was outside enjoying the weather and their new-found freedom: everyone except Hermione. No, Hermione was exactly where I expected her to be—sitting in her little secluded corner of the library. I knew that this was my chance, but I wasn't leaving anything up to chance and so I wandered my way around the entire library just to that no one was around. Then I cast a quick silencing spell and walked briskly towards where I knew she sat. Hiding behind a bookshelf, I grabbed the spine of the fattest book on the shelf and yanked it free, causing the books around it to clap loudly together.

"Who's there?" Hermione questioned, startled.

It was then that I decided to show myself. "Blaise Zabini, at your service." I said cordially, a smile somewhere between polite and joking on my lips as I pressed the book into my forehead in a salute and bowed ever so slightly, silently thanking Merlin that my curls hadn't fallen into my face. I then stood at attention and waited to see what Hermione would do.

"What do you want?" She sounded entirely uninterested and didn't even bother to look at me, her eyes gliding over her textbook as though I hadn't walked in the room. This was exactly the opposite of what I'd been planning with my rather theatric entrance. No matter, I wasn't in the mood to give up.

"Well aren't we polite?" I knew that sarcasm probably wasn't the best way to make friends—my father told me that once—but I couldn't help it.

"Well, I'm surprised you would know anything about what is polite, seeing as you're the best friend of Draco Malfoy." She seemed more interested at this point, but her tone was now rather flat as though she were trying to excuse an unruly child from a classroom.

I laughed. "I hardly think that's a fair way to judge me, Ms. Granger." And there I went again, steering the conversation away from the whole point by arguing.

"Well, Mr. Zabini—" she started, but I cut her off.

"Please," I scoffed, "Mr. Zabini is a horrible bloke who dared to call himself my father. He has been presumed dead for some time now, though I can't say it doesn't serve him right. Call me Blaise." That was the bait, and I figured she would take it. I wasn't about to spill all my secrets to her, but I realized that I would have to give her something.

"Fine. Blaise. Aren't you afraid that your reputation will be ruined, hanging around a mudblood and all?" There wasn't any malice in her question, it was like she just expected it and like she wouldn't blame me if I suddenly realized that she was muggleborn and puked all over the floor before exiting, screaming as I went.

Again, I scoffed. "Ms. Granger, the parents you're born to make no difference to me. You deserve to be here just as much as anyone else." Her face widened into a smile. I figured that I was probably the first Slytherin ever to tell her that.

"Wait until I tell Harry!"

"Err . . . let's not tell Potter about this . . . or actually, let's not tell anyone about this." This was the dangerous part, but I needed her to understand.

"Why?" she demanded, a slight irritation flushing her face.

"Look, you're going to have to have some faith . . ." I begged, though I'd always thought begging was beneath me, "Telling anyone will have most . . . undesirable effects."

"I don't understand." She looked flustered, confused, and a bit hurt. The hurt part is what confused me. She hardly knew me and already I had the power to hurt her? It just didn't add up.

"Look, you'll understand one day why I've done and why I continue to do the things that I do, but right now it's just too dangerous."

"Is this about you and your stupid money?" She looked suddenly quite angry, "Is mummy dearest going to disinherit poor Blaisey Waisey?"

I sigh, about to reveal more information about myself when I can't even tell if she'll trust me. "Wrong again, Ms. Granger. I couldn't care less about the family fortune, and 'mummy' is about the least dear person on the planet to me, second only to my late father."

"You don't care about money," she gaped, clearly surprised.

Normally I would agree with her surprise, but I currently don't see much use for all those family funds in my future. I kind of doubt I'll ever need any more money in my life, but that's not something I was going to tell her at that moment. Instead, I settled for a good old-fashioned lie.

"Nope. I figure I could make my own way and do just about anything I like."

"And there's a bit of that Slytherin arrogance." She smiled at that statement, triumphant over the horrible Slytherin she probably thought that I was.

"You have no idea."

"So, what is it you wanted anyway?"

_Finally_, I thought, _we cut to the chase_.

"I need an associate of sorts, Ms. Granger. I need someone on the inside, and I certainly can't do that."

"You want me to spy on Harry, don't you!"

"No, I don't." That was the truth. "I want you to be a piece on the gameboard, Merlin knows I am. You see a time is coming where everyone must play their part, a time where the wrong move can ruin everything, and I need your help to make the right moves and win the game. What do you say?"

As I expected, she seemed to know exactly what I was hinting at which was, of course, the upcoming fight against the Dark Lord. "Well, I don't see as I can agree to anything," she said finally. "I have no reason to trust you, Blaise, and without that I can't see myself doing anything for your benefit."

Oh, how far I was stooping for this girl, but I couldn't say no. I needed her; I still need her. I blinked for a few seconds before making up my mind, "If I tell you something, something that I've never told anyone else, would you trust me?"

"Yes, I think I could agree to that."

"Follow me."

I turned and left the room, hoping that she would be close behind. I silently mourned the secret I was about to reveal—the biggest secret I'd had in a long time. I walked quickly and led her through back tunnels that not many people knew about, trying not to be seen with her before finally stopping. I stood directly in front of the wall on the seventh floor that would lead to the Room of Requirement.

"I need a place where I can hide," I said slowly, careful to annunciate so that not a single syllable would be missed, "a place where everything will be hidden."

Hermione gasped beside me. "How do you know about that?"

"I know a great many things." That was all I said before grabbing her arm and sweeping her into the room, closing the door behind us. The Room of Requirement had given me a rather dark space, lit only by candles flickering tauntingly along the edges. In the center of the room hung a very small chandelier—an iron thing with wax dripping to the table beneath it. At the table sat two harsh-looking metal chairs, chairs that I rather thought belonged in a prison as I shuddered in the cold temperatures.

"I've never seen it look like this . . ." she whispered, as though frightened that talking would set off a booby trap of some sort.

"Well, you've never heard what your about to hear before either." I said this to her in an equally soft tone before grabbing her elbow and guided her to the chairs. Then I sat down and took a very deep breath, sweat on my brow. I had been nervous before of course, but that was nothing compared to that moment. I, Blaise Augustus Zabini, was about to lay my cards on the table. I never laid my cards on the table. My gaze found hers and I forced eye contact fiercely, trying to get her to see how serious this was.

"What," she asked after we sat in silence for a while, "What's your secret."

"You promise you won't tell anyone?" I was begging again, "I need you to not tell anyone."

"I won't tell a soul," she whispered, and I could tell by the solemn glint to her eyes that she meant it. It was then that I knew it was time. Holding my breath, I rolled up my left sleeve and revealed my Dark Mark.

**Hey, thanks for reading the first chapter of If We Should Part. I won't complain if you leave a review and I hope you come back for the second chapter.**


	2. The Games We Play

**Before you start reading, I'd like to just kind of warn you that I'm really bad at updating this on a specific schedule, which is mostly due to me trying to ensure that this story is exactly what I want it to be. I really don't want to rush through chapters, and I think that waiting a bit for updates will be worth the extra effort.**

**Chapter Two: ****_The Games We Play_**

"Blaise Zabini!" Hermione screeched, slapping me so hard that my head jerked backwards. I could feel the sting of each of her fingers on the right side of my face as it throbbed.

"How could you?" She slapped the other side of my face just as aggressively. I could have stopped her, but some part of me believed that I deserved it. Anyway, I knew that she needed to get the anger out of her system, and this was as good a way as any.

"I'll get my just rewards eventually . . ." I moaned while rubbing my cheeks fiercely and trying my best to repeat the method I saw Draco use when Hermione famously slapped him across the face. Hermione was standing and pacing back and forth in a straight line at this point, but when she heard my words, she paused from her about-to-be lecture and eyed me suspiciously.

"What do you mean by that?"

_"Only that if I don't die, I'll end up in Azkaban for a very long time. You see, I'm a Death Eater, and my soul isn't my own." _That's what I wanted to say, but instead I ended up saying this: "You . . . look, I'm not sorry for what I've become, but it's not for the reasons that you think."

_Brilliant, Blaise. _Why did I say such an outrageously stupid thing?

"You stupid Slytherin," she spat, literally, in my face. I didn't bother to wipe it off. "Don't you understand! He's a maniac! Voldemort is a maniac!" This surprised me, her blatant use of the Dark Lord's name, but I didn't have time to dwell on it.

"What do you want me to do," I goad, trying to turn the conversation, "Break down crying and admit that he'll kill me if I don't obey? Tell you that I'm scared? Turn myself in to Azkaban?"

Hermione's expression turned thoughtful, and she considered a moment before responding: "No—" But she gets no farther before I cut her off.

"—That's not what this is about, Hermione!" I'm shouting at this point, centimeters from her face. I needed her to understand. "I'm not just some kid! I grew up a long time ago and I did it without anyone. I've played with fire before, and I will do it again and again as many times as I have to.

"But . . ." my voice softened and I pulled away, "I can't guarantee that I'll make it out this time. Of course it wouldn't matter—believe me when I say it wouldn't matter—except it's not just my life I'm playing with. Hermione, the fate of the world rests on my shoulders." Okay, so maybe I went a little too far with that one.

Hermione started laughing. "The fate of the world?" she smacked her knee, for dramatic effect I presumed, "No. Harry . . . Harry has the fate of the world on his shoulders. Dumbledore has the fate of the world on his shoulders. You? You're just some stupid, frightened child with delusions of power or I don't even know what."

And with the words "stupid" and "child" she had crossed the line. I'm not a violent person at heart, but I shoved her into the chair I'd sat her in earlier. Then I once again placed my face centimeters away from hers, but this time spoke—without raising my voice—as harshly as I could manage. I knew from personal experience that this was scarier.

"I'm going to tell you this right now, and I'm only going to say it once, so you better bloody well listen," I growl, "Harry Potter is supposed to kill the Dark Lord—right—but he's in over his head. And Dumbledore—the great and powerful Dumbledore—is . . . well I can't tell you what he's doing because no one knows." I knew, but that was beside the point.

"And because of all of those things," I continue, "I can't sit back and leave the fate of the world in their hands. I am Blaise Augustus Zabini, and I always have a plan; but I need your help with this one. And unlike when Ron or Harry need your help and expect you to swoop in and save them, this would be more of a partnership, because I am wicked smart." I grinned as I backed away from her, positive she'd lighten up at my display of arrogance.

"Wicked smart, huh? Then how come your grades are always in the middle of the class?"

"You're a smart girl. Think about it."

"You . . . want to be expelled."

I rolled my eyes at her.

"What . . . you don't like the attention or something?"

"The spotlight's not useful for me," I affirmed.

"So you're telling me—"

"—that the spotlight serves me no purpose?" I raised an eyebrow, deliberately missing her point. Then I winked at her and flashed a quick grin complete with an innocent shrug of my shoulders. "I . . . fail on purpose."

"What! Why would you do that? You really could be expelled!"

"Oh the horror." Then I dropped the dramatics and tapped my fingers on the table: back to business.

"So what does this plan entail?" she questioned, "—and I need all of it, including what you'd personally be doing and everything that you know."

"But do I really know that I can trust you?"

Now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow at me, or at least attempt it. The actual result was amusing enough that I had to bite back a laugh.

"You came to me," she stated, "**You **came to **me**. If you need any more than that, know that I don't actually have feelings for Ron, I just can't hurt him. He's already hurting so much, and I . . . I just can't add to that."

I could tell just by looking at her face how much she meant that and how hard it was for her to tell me. I was rather surprised that she told me anything at all, and—though this information seemed entirely pointless to me—it was enough for me to decide to risk it.

"Alright fine," I agreed. Then I filled her in on the plan . . .

* * *

What is the plan? Well it's simple really, and by simple, I mean extremely complicated. It starts on this premise: Draco Malfoy isn't a Death Eater now, but I know that he will be soon. I know this because he'll think that it's the best way to get rid of his father; he'll think it's the only way to get rid of his father. Because of this, I jumped the gun first.

I apparated directly into Malfoy Manor one night when Draco and his parents were off in Italy on "vacation", which was mostly likely just a mission from the Dark Lord to get Lucius out of his hair. As I expected, the Dark Lord himself was there and—after getting over the initial shock of seeing that freak of nature—I approached him as boldly as I possibly could, demanding that he make me a Death Eater and allow me to succeed where others had failed. And how did I manage to make demands of the Dark Lord without peeing my pants? Well, for the first time in my life I was doing something that wasn't completely selfish. I was saving Draco. I was saving the world in a way that wouldn't even benefit me in the long run.

The Dark Lord was pleasantly intrigued by my confidence and did as I asked, though it hurt more than anything I'd anticipated. My first mission—and basically last mission—was to dispose of a muggleborn couple that knew too much of our world, the world they "didn't deserve". I deliberately failed.

My punishment was the Cruciatus, which hurt even worse than receiving the Dark Mark: so much more that I know exactly why casting it is a straight ticket to Azkaban. But I bore it as well as I could because I was exactly where I wanted to be: in the ranks, able to attend meetings, but mostly unnoticed by the others.

Anyway, Draco's going to become a Death Eater, and I already know what his mission will be, courtesy of a discussion I had the pleasure of overhearing during one of the more recent meetings. His mission will be to kill Albus Dumbledore, which I obviously can't allow to happen. Draco must be kept innocent and Dumbledore—though I'm not his biggest fan—is far too important. That's when we get to part two.

I've collecting the ingredients I need to make one of the most helpful and complicated potions imaginable: Draught of Living Death. When Draco goes to kill Dumbledore I will be waiting. I'll hide in the shadows and force feed some of my draught to Dumbledore (he'll comply I hope), but in a low dosage so that it takes a bit for it to kick in. Then I'll step out into the spotlight, hit him with an Avada Kedavra (that I'll aim slightly behind him) and they'll all presume him dead. Of course, then I'll join the Ministry's Most Wanted List, but I'll be safely in the arms of the Death Eaters until I can come and revive old Dumbly.

After Dumbledore is discovered alive again, I'll move from the Ministry's Most Wanted List to the Dark Lord's Most Wanted List, but at that point I'll already have made a dramatic entrance at the Ministry and landed myself safely into Azkaban. Will it be living death? Yes, but since I won't have killed anyone, I won't get the Dementor's kiss, and if I'm extremely lucky, Dumbledore will vouch for me at the end of the war and I'll be released. Otherwise . . . well, I don't like to think about that, but I guess it's a risk I must take.

Now we come to the part where I need Hermione Granger. Once I land myself in Azkaban I'll be useless, but the war won't have been won. I could try to convince someone else to join my side of course, but Hermione's extremely talented and I think most likely to trust me as well. She will be on team Harry Potter/part two of Draco Malfoy.

Step one requires me to link her and Draco's mind using a Dark Spell I discovered in the depths of the Malfoy library that I definitely didn't sneak into. This will of course suck immensely for the both of them (as I'm 90% sure that they hate each other's guts) but it will keep Hermione safer while simultaneously providing Draco with a conscience and preventing the Dark Lord from seeing into their minds. She will try her best to keep Draco from killing Dumbledore, but I will "kill" him regardless. He will in turn eventually realize the error of his ways (though I rather suspect he'll learn that as soon as he receives the Dark Mark) and help team Harry by telling Hermione where the Death Eaters are and how to avoid them while she goes on another task of my choosing.

This task is to dispose of the Horcruxes (the two I've managed to locate in all my snooping and all the four remaining others if you don't count the diary that was already destroyed). Dumbledore would be busy looking them, but I rather hope that he understands that the general duties of war are his to perform.

Harry will of course think it was all his idea to find and destroy the Horcruxes, but I thought of it first (just saying). Once all the Horcruxes are disposed of, Harry is free to rid the world of the Dark Lord (a glorious day indeed). Hopefully after the Dark Lord is defeated I'll be freed, but either way the world can live in peace again.

I'm not a hero. I never wanted to be a hero. Really it's only loyalty to a friend that started all of this. I could, of course, leave it to the professionals . . . but the "professionals" are Dumbledore—whom I don't entirely trust; Draco—who has terrible judgment that's blinded by hate and his father's prejudices; and Harry Potter—possibly the most overrated wizard of all time. I just can't stomach those odds, and even though my plan is a bit scary to me personally, I kind of knew that something like this would happen, anyway, or at least figured that it would.

I first gained suspicion during my second year, the year the Chamber of Secrets was opened. I was working on an essay about the Dark Lord's rise to power that I was supposed to be writing. I had finished most of the work and was busy botching it to the perfect level (that year was the one in which I discovered the perfect score range to rest in), when I happened upon a bit of information that surprised me: the Dark Lord's body had never been found. This reminded me of Harry Potter and his claims that he'd seen the very same Dark Lord during his fight for the Sorcerer's Stone, which made me begin to wonder how on earth someone could survive the killing curse.

I knew, of course, that Harry had survived it because of his mother's love or something like that, but since it was deflected and hit the Dark Lord himself, how had he survived? I've never been content to leave things alone, and I certainly wasn't about to start then, which led me to my first perusing of the restricted section and to the library at Malfoy Manor. Both places were a little dangerous for a second year, but everyone seemed too busy to be bothered by a few books missing here or there.

Whilst reading these stolen books, I came upon the mention of a dark spell called a Horcrux. Being in my second year, I had no idea what those were and so I brushed the word aside, very nearly forgetting about it. But zoom forward to the summer of my third year on a trip with my mother to France for her 3rd and certainly not final wedding where I discovered yet another thing that I wasn't supposed to know: what Horcruxes do. I was wandering through the old mansion where my mother's fiancé's mom lived when I felt a strong tug from a dark room. In the room rested an old spinning wheel. For some reason, I felt compelled to touch it, almost like an otherness had control of my body.

When I finally did touch it, I felt so much anger and hurt bubbling inside of me that I broke down sobbing, at which time I heard my step-grandmother's low growl behind me. She forced me into an Unbreakable Vow before telling me that I'd just come across her Horcrux. It was then that I knew how the Dark Lord had survived, but I still had no idea how many Horcruxes he had made in the first place.

I spent the rest of the summer and most of my fourth year scared out of my wits. I was trying to reason my way out of the conclusion that I'd come to; but I couldn't quite shake it out of my thoughts. I felt trapped and terrified almost to the very end of my fourth year, at which point I realized that Dumbledore must know something. I needed to know what that was. So I confronted him, demanding to know everything about the Dark Lord's inevitable return. He of course told me nothing, but all that accomplished was to make me curious.

I decided that summer to pay a little visit to Godric's Hollow: the place of Dumbledore's birth, and—more importantly—the place where the Dark Lord had been defeated the first time. It was there that I stumbled upon Bathilda Bagshot, the one witch that knew anything about Dumbledore. It was a rather long shot, but I was willing to do anything for any information at all by then. However, while Bathilda turned out to be a hidden wealth of knowledge about Dumbledore; she knew literally nothing about the Horcruxes, a great disappointment to my fourth-year self.

My fifth year gained nothing interesting, but after seeing Potter's terror and indirectly hearing the story of Cedric Diggory's death, I realized to my terror that the Dark Lord had already returned and that if I didn't act quickly, the entire world would suffer immensely. It was then that I decided to join the Death Eaters as a spy for myself. It was also then that I used my first Unforgivable, the Cruciatus, when I was laughed at by the members of the Death Eaters who were present that terrible day. That curse was enough to prove my worth to the Dark Lord, but for me it was more of a test. That curse has been seared into my conscience forever. It helped me decide with finality to do whatever it takes to bring the Dark Lord down—and this time for good.

* * *

I lay in my bed with my eyes closed, breathing in the embarrassment of the day I just finished. I convinced Hermione to plant a picture of myself—shirtless and winking in one of my over-the-top smolders, a rose in my mouth, and the word "always" signed in my best handwriting at the bottom—on Harry's pillow. I planted an identical picture on Draco's pillow, and we both charmed the rooms to transmit the sound across the entire castle and the pictures to disintegrate the moment they were taken out of their rooms.

It had been hilariously funny to hear them shriek, and I still can't believe that Hermione did it. She probably still feels sorry for me and what I'm sacrificing. Of course, she's still Hermione and will most likely be getting after me for botching more homework. Hopefully she won't be too upset when I tell her that I've been advised to get a desk job as a secretary at some place where no skills are necessary, that way next year's N.E.W.T.s don't really matter. This would have bothered me in, say, my fourth year, but I've long since given up on a future for myself.

It's funny how little you start to care about things like dignity when you realize that you only have about a year left to truly live. I never, ever make a fool of myself except in front of Draco and I rarely even make my existence known period, but I'm sure everyone will be trying to find out who I am tomorrow, especially when I snog the living daylights out of some poor girl to prove that I'm not gay. Sure, I have no future planned for myself, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to let my reputation die.

I finally fall asleep, dreaming of Azkaban and hoping that I'm not screaming. Dementors scare me almost as much as the kiss they give, and I've only encountered them once from a distance when they chased Harry all those years ago. Azkaban is packed with them, ready to crush the hope of anyone foolish enough to possess any. The last thought I remember thinking is that I should practice using wandless magic to keep the Dementors at bay while I'm in there.

.

**So there you have it . . . I hope you liked it and will come back when chapter 3 is done. Byeee!  
**


	3. Every Peace Matters

**Chapter Three: ****_Every Peace Matters_**

I push a curl into place and waltz out of my room clad in my shiny green tie and school uniform, smiling to myself in the mirror. Hopefully my Italian looks and chocolaty brown eyes will save me from a slap to the face. After all, most girls wouldn't tolerate what I'm about to do.

After making my way down the final flights of stairs, I swagger into the Great Hall as if I hadn't been blowing kisses at Harry Potter last night. Everyone is staring at me, of course, and it's all I can do not to blush furiously. They whisper amongst themselves loudly as though I can't hear them, which is starting to annoy me when I spot my prey: Millicent Bulstrode.

I remember the last time I kissed her. It was the middle of the Yule Ball and Draco was off sulking that Pansy Parkinson didn't want anything to do with him and instead chose to dote over Theodore Nott. These sorts of things have always bothered him, so I approached him with caution and prodded until he told me what would make him feel better, which was apparently for me to make the biggest scene imaginable so that I would get kicked out and have as horrible a time as him.

I don't know why I did it, but with a deep breath I ran right up to Millicent and pulled her away from her supposed date with Vincent Crabb. I grabbed her hand and rushed halfway up the staircase: the one place where everyone was sure to see me. Before she could react, I gave her a hard kiss. Millicent, who must really have no standards since we weren't even dating, didn't seem to mind and in fact kissed me back—for several minutes. At first no one noticed except Draco (who was laughing his head off at this point), but then a certain loud Weasley from my year shouted, "Blaise Zabini is snogging that poor Slytherin girl!". That got everyone's attention and, sure enough, I got kicked out: not Millicent and I—just me.

As I continue my way into the Great Hall, people begin to stare more openly, perhaps noticing the mischievous glint in my eyes. I'm more than slightly nervous about this as Millicent was not only my first kiss, but also the only girl I've ever kissed. I shove these feelings of anxiety away, however, and march right up to Millicent and grab her arm, pulling her away from her conversation with Crabbe.

"Oh!" she shouts, startled. I drag her to the middle of the room and try to ignore the hundreds of eyes on me.

"Just follow my lead," I whisper harshly before pressing my lips against hers and enacting my second ever snog. I rather figured she'd let me do it again, and I'm not let down. The entire population gasps in surprise and then freezes, unsure of what to do or make of it, all except one person, that is. Theodore Nott is giving me a standing ovation.

I take my chance before everyone else is shaken from their stupor. I do the only thing I can think of and bolt, this time grinning rather than sobbing after declaring my love of Harry Potter. Before I run into the hallway, I turn to face the crowd and blow one of my now-signature kisses complete with a dramatic wink before disappearing. I can hear Draco howling with laughter in the background, apparently over my little picture stunt from last night, and Theodores explosive claps. Everyone else is so quiet I could almost swear they were dead.

Like a fugitive on the run I allow my feet to go wherever they will take me. I'm not going to class today and most likely no one will miss me. Anyway, it's important that I start on my potions. Reaching a deserted hallway, I set up camp and pull out some parchment and a quill, one that doesn't run out of ink (I'm a Zabini, after all, and while it's not Malfoy level, Zabini equals rich). Then I begin listing the potions I'll need to brew, starting with Draught of Living Death, followed by Wiggenweld Potion to reverse the effects and Veritaserum, an added protection I'll take when I inform the ministry of the Death Eater's whereabouts (and probably admit to some other things that I don't want said). I'll also be needing Draught of Peace which I'll chug right before hopping into Azkaban so that I can ease my way into the terror.

After sitting there for a few hours, I look up to see Hermione standing over me. She's leaning against the wall and looks quite at peace with the world, a slight smile on her face. It's probably because she seems to think that the world can't be so bad if there's someone as terrible as a Slytherin that's "changed their ways". Of course I didn't really change anything about myself, but she won't hear it.

Presently she seems to be off in dreamland, as unaware of me as I was of her up until a few seconds ago. Suddenly a shiver passes through her whole body and her gaze sharpens. She sticks her tongue out just a tiny bit at the corner of her mouth and she leans down over my shoulder and taps the words "draught of peace".

"What's that one for?" she asks, but I simply shake my head as I begin to pack up my things. We can't do this right now; not in public. She knows it's dangerous for me to be seen with her, right? I stand up stiffly, refusing to acknowledge Hermione any further as I prepare to leave, but it just might be too late.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Draco's long strides and slightly bobbing head in the corridor beside us, Theodore Nott for some reason a few steps behind him. In a moment of panic, I force Hermione into the wall and pull out my wand, shoving it threateningly against her neck.

"Do you think you'll ever be good enough?" I spit, trying my best to portray some sense of rage, "Because you—Granger—you are just a simple, filthy mudblood. You can go rot in Azkaban for all I care, just leave me the bloody hell alone and quit following me!"

_It worked! _I think triumphantly as Draco walks away, a slight smile on his face. But when I look over at Hermione to tell her to follow me, I notice that tears are beginning well up in her eyes and she looks sincerely hurt.

_Oh great_, I chide myself, _Blaise Zabini: actor and friendship ruiner, extraordinaire_! She turns to leave, and again I panic, wondering how I could be so stupid as to ruin my plan before it even stands a chance. In my state of panic, I pull her into an embrace, the only one we've ever had, which in retrospect wasn't a good idea.

Hermione jumps at the contact and steps away, eyeing me suspiciously. That's when I lean in to whisper into her ear that it was all an act, and that's when she slaps me across the face. I guess it did kind of look like I was going to kiss her . . . I sigh in exasperation and grab her by the wrist, probably looking like a crazed abuser, but I don't have time right now to think of anything else.

"I need a place where I can hide, and place where everything will be hidden." Hermione stares at me, mouth gaping open and terror dominating her usually concentrated look.

_And now she thinks you're going to hurt her, great_ . . .

She begins to struggle wildly as I pull her into the Room of Requirements. She probably has very different ideas than I do about what I'm needing to hide. Luckily, the door is closed when she gets the idea to scream. I quickly clamp a hand over her mouth. She's breathing hard and fast when I suddenly realize that speaking to her is—and probably always was—the best way to resolve this.

"If you would look at me, you'd see me rolling my eyes right now." I say this in a joking tone whilst rolling my eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, Hermione." She still struggles, however, and begins mumbling against my hand.

"Hermione, "I plead, trying a different strategy, "Hermione, I'm not going to hurt you. I don't hate you, I wouldn't ever call you a mudblood, and I wasn't trying to kiss you back there. I don't know why I'm such an idiot; but yelling at you like that was the first thing I thought of when I saw Draco coming.

"You can trust me, Hermione, I promise. I wouldn't hurt you; I've never wanted to hurt anyone. I'm not like the others." Then I relinquish my grip on her mouth and take a few paces backwards.

"I'm sorry . . ." she breathes shakily. The tears in her eyes quickly overflow and fall in cascades down her cheek, meeting at her chin and sliding onto her neck. It's her that pulls me into an embrace this time and we freeze in each other's arms for several minutes before pulling away, me because I'd forgotten what hugs felt like and her for whatever reasons she has, probably sympathy or something along those lines.

I know that this is the time for the completely honest, trust-worthy part of myself that I just advertised. Besides, this game of fate I am playing with the world won't work unless she trusts me completely, because I might be asking her to do some completely loony things in the coming days. For these reasons, I admit the following:

"I forgot what hugs felt like." I smile in the warmest manner that I can, hardly needed any effort to accomplish it.

"I guess it hurts being you doesn't it?" There's not even a hint of teasing as she stares solemnly into my chocolaty eyes, a curl falling into my face in direct defiance of the gel I so carefully used. The words are so ironic that in another lifetime I could've laughed, but it suddenly occurs to me that it's true.

"Sometimes." I nod, letting her know that we're done talking about this. "It's to get rid of my absolute terror—" I blurt, remembering her question before my bloody best friend had to show up. Hermione looks at me as if I just proposed marriage, a confused glaze over her eyes.

"The Draught of Peace, that is," I clarify, "Dementors . . . I'm deathly afraid of Dementors."

_And the cat is out of the bag, folks_! Hermione laughs, lightly at the beginning and then deep and throaty, which sends a slight twinge of hurt through my chest.

"So Blaise Zabini, the same Blaise Zabini who marched up to Voldemort and demanded that he give him a Dark Mark, the same Blaise Zabini who threw his reputation to the wind to give his horrible toad-faced best friend a few laughs, the same Blaise Zabini who's going to ruin his life for the fate of the world without a second thought . . . that Blaise Zabini is scared of Dementors?" I lower my gaze and smile slightly, feeling outrageously stupid as well as incredibly sheepish.

"Yeah . . ." is all I manage to get out, though my voice comes so high that I could swear a ten-year-old kid had just appeared out of nowhere and said the word. I can't believe how much I'm letting her get to me, especially as I didn't even blush whilst declaring my love to Harry Bloody Potter or even when I snogged the living daylights out of Millicent Bulstrode. But I can't hide my feelings terribly well and hearing her say those things about me makes me ashamed.

Why am I ashamed? Well, it could be that I have conveniently left out almost every part of the plan to her that includes Draco. I told her that I needed to be the one to "kill" Dumbledore because I needed to be in the Death Eater's good graces for the next part of my plan, which involved me getting the information I needed to find a few more Horcruxes when, in reality, I already know about as many of them as I'm ever going to find out. But I just can't drag Draco into this. Maybe she'll figure out for herself when I link their minds together . . .

It feels wrong somehow to even consider linking their minds, and I know that actually doing it will further agonize my conscience that's already beginning to burn with all the lies. It occurs to me that when I die I'll probably go to hell. I suddenly can't stand such thoughts, and I rush from the room with a lame excuse that I'm late for a class. It's not entirely untrue though, because I am late for class . . . by two hours.

Swiftly pushing the door outward, I take a step to run down to the Slytherin Commons. I don't make it more than a step, however, before I freeze, realizing what I've just done. Standing not a meter behind me is Theodore Nott.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" He's displaying a sly look, his eyebrow raised marginally as he leans against the wall of the corridor.

"Um . . . I don't know what you mean?" Of course, I know that he'll get what he wants; Slytherin students always get what they want, even if it takes a lifetime.

"Cut the crap, Zabini, I know you're planning something, something that I suspect involves your life ending. You wouldn't have blown kisses to Potter or snogged Millicent if you weren't."

I smile innocently, tilting my chin in embarrassment that I don't feel. "Well, I had to cover for myself. Harry clearly doesn't see me that way." I force my voice to lift in admiration at Harry's name, hoping upon hope that my tactic will work.

"Really," he questions with feigned enthusiasm, "because I could have sworn that you just left the Room of Requirements, and I could've sworn that Hermione Granger is in there now. And I wasn't mistaken when I said you were planning something." Theodore looks bored. He waits a few seconds and then glances around before continuing, "I need a place where I can hide, a place where everything will be hidden."

_Crap, _I think to myself, watching as the door appears and he marches into the room, shouting triumphantly as he discovers that he was right. He plops onto a couch conveniently near the door and looks at me unceremoniously, the Slytherin way of saying that you want answers.

Hermione is staring at him slack-jawed, excitement gleaming in her chestnut eyes. She probably expects that Theodore will turn out to be "another" unlikely hero.

"What do you want, Nott?" I plop into an adjacent chair and wait.

"Same as you, probably. To bring the Dark Lord down."

"You—what?"

"You heard me."

"But—" I find myself lost for words.

"But what? My father is a Death Eater. I want out, I want him out, and I want the world to return to normal. However, I can't be rid of this blasted thing and I think it looks rather suspicious." He pulls up his left sleeve and reveals a hideous blistered mass that likely covers a Dark Mark.

I can't ignore a show of trust like this, and I can't ignore a declaration of allegiance from Theodore Nott, the person most likely to become a real Death Eater besides Draco Malfoy and apparently myself.

"Why?"

Nott sighs, "You heard me. My father is an arse and I would love to see him knocked down a few pegs. His magic isn't better or more powerful than anyone else's: I've seen it. His blood, anyone's blood . . . it's all the same. I want to help you."

* * *

I waltz into the Slytherin commons just before dinner and find Draco standing on his bed reading a Quidditch magazine as though it were the script for a play. I can't help but smile at the tall blonde figure hunched over to fit, his broad shoulders scraping the frame of the canopy, head buried in the text as he practically scarfs down the magazine. There's no one else in the room, and when my foot hits the creaking hardwood, he jumps, thumping his shoulders with a sharp crack against the dark wood.

"What the—" Draco shouts, whipping out his wand and pointing it to where I'm standing before spotting me, relaxing visibly when he sees my slightly shorter frame and face full of curls that I haven't really bothered to shove out of my brown eyes.

"Don't think I've forgiven you for last night," Draco asks after a moment, "But where were you today? I haven't seen you at all except when you were giving the mudblood a piece of your mind. Well done, by the way. People like that need to be brought down a peg or two."

The word "mudblood" rings in my ears, but there simply isn't any point to arguing about it now. He's just too prejudiced. Instead, I address the question about where I was.

"I was . . . not in the mood for classes today." I quickly say, which isn't quite a lie but twinges in my chest all the same. "It's not like it matters anyway; I'm not a top student or anything."

"Blaise, you and I both know better than that. Heck, you could probably beat the scores of Granger herself if you actually tried."

"Maybe, but you and I both know better than that." I wink at him in a more diluted form than has been my recent habit. "Besides . . ." I smirk mischievously, "there's **always** tomorrow."

"I swear, Blaise!" Draco flops dramatically onto his bed, though not without managing to smack himself on the headboard and pretending that he hasn't smacked himself on the headboard. I roll my eyes and chuckle lightly before heading out the door for dinner.

**Thanks for reading chapter 3. As always, please leave a review, I'd love to hear from you. Until next time!  
**


	4. Moonlight

**So I had like ten chapters of this story done when I was reading through it again and really felt like it was missing some of that depth of character that I really want in it. I really think that this new version of chapter four will help to give everyone a clear sense of who Blaise really is. Thanks for bearing with me here.**

**Chapter Four: ****_Moonlight_**

The moon glows softly into the Astronomy Tower; pushing through the arched windows, each ending in a soft curve. The grounds below shimmer and ripple as the wind pushes against the silvery grass. The world seems to pause for a moment, a peace settling that makes me rather jealous. I probably shouldn't even be bothering with it, but still I find myself leaning on my elbows on the window ledge.

"Hey Dreamy." Draco waves a hand in my face, lightly smacking it against my forehead. "Get out of Blaise Topia and study for this exam! Merlin knows you bloody well need to pass this one."

I snap my head away from the beauty below me and refocus on the blonde before me, his hair catching the moonlight and making it look even whiter than usual. I stretch my lips in a yawn and plop onto the stone floor, snatching my wand from the floor using it to keep my place as I glaze over my textbook before I pull my gaze to Draco's face once more.

"Oh come on, you know I don't need to study!"

Draco rolls his eyes, "Oh not this again," he scoffs, placing a pale palm on my shoulder as though I were a child, "Blaise . . . if you want to be a _real_ wizard, you have to graduate Hogwarts, and that means that you need to study." I hate it when he draws out his words like I'm a toddler, but if that's how he wants it . . .

Instead of answering, I throw myself backwards, stretching my limbs and pretending that it my head doesn't sting from its introduction to the floor. Then I curl into a fetal position and stick my thumb in my mouth, thrashing a bit for effect.

"Mummy," I whimper, making puppy eyes at him and propping myself onto my elbow, "Mummy make the bad man go away!" I thrust a finger in his face, puffing out my bottom lip in the process.

"You are such a child." Still, he can't hide the tiny smile pulling at his lips, not this late at night.

"I'm sleepy! It's nuh-night time! Carry me, mummy!" I thrust my arms in his direction.

"No." Draco rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"Carry me mummy, carry me!"

"Not on your life."

"MUMMY!" My lungs are quite powerful, a fact that Draco knows quite well. "MUMMY CARRY ME!"

Draco flinches and glances about us wildly, his hair practically on end, "Fine," he hisses, "Just shut up already!" He sighs audibly and leans over, shoving his books into his bag.

I push my book into my bag from my spot and set the bag on my stomach. Then I grin widely and reach my arms up at him again. "Up, mummy!"

Muttering something about being high maintenance, Draco scoops me up into his arms bridal style and begins down the stairs. Normally he wouldn't do this, but we were supposed to be asleep hours ago, and there's no way that he'd risk getting caught, which is what makes this so much fun.

Draco trips exactly twice on the way to the Common Room: on the bottom step from the Astronomy Tower and on a random stone that apparently needs repairing, jutting several centimeters from its original place. Each time I barely hold back a snicker, but I don't want him to drop me, so I manage. As soon as we enter Slytherin territory, Draco pulls back his arms and drops me from his full height onto the thankfully carpeted floor. I stare at him stubbornly and curl up right where I land, closing my eyes and letting sleep steal me away. I struggle sleeping sometimes, but it's four in the morning, so I manage.

* * *

I should've slept in my bed. My bed is comfortable, and I wouldn't be stuck with this stiff twinge of pain when I try to stand up straight. I grit my teeth and force myself from the ground anyway, only to be met with the sweeping gaze of Draco. He's lounging on one of the emerald sofas, the back of which is as stiff as my own, but it holds its own in the House of children who are used to uncomfortable furniture anyway.

Draco leans slowly towards me and watches more, his face blank and giving away nothing that an outsider would pick up. I'm his best friend and I can still only sense his stress in a very limited way, picking it up from the fight necessary to make him smile even just a bit. He clears his throat and pauses, darting his eyes from me to the spot next to him.

I make my move to join him, grimacing at the half-dozen cracks my spine makes throughout the movement. Then in a fluid motion, I sweep my hand from the edge of my jawbone to my opposite shoulder, sweeping my dark curls to one side as I simultaneously turn my head to face him. I blink at him slowly, feigning indifference to whatever he's about to say. It's a game—Slytherin House—one that requires subtlety, at least in an open area such as the Common Room.

"I'm assuming this is the point at which you expect an apology?" Draco finally breaks the silence in a breath, but slowly, delicately, in a way that sounds to the casual passerby like a discussion over our latest Potions assignment

"Excuse me?" I raise an eyebrow, and he winces, probably expecting me to pull another drama segment.

"I'm sorry okay, I shouldn't have dropped you here." He leans in a touch before continuing, his lips very near my ear as he breathes, "You know you're my only mate."

I chuckle slightly, which makes him draw back. I stand again as though to reject the apology, but at the very last second of my dramatic exit, I thrust my arm forward, offering him a hand. I raise both eyebrows and tip my head to the side, staring at a point just behind him.

Without hesitation, he clasps my forearm and allows me to swing him forward, meeting our other hands at the wrist, an exercise that we both know well. He puts his foot forwards and bows ever so slightly, pulling both hands from my reach in the process. He points his gaze into my face, his grey eyes glinting from under his long and whitish hair.

I nod firmly, bringing my hands swiftly against his shoulders in a chopping fashion, leaving them for a microsecond before pulling away and joining him in his bow. My action leaves us both bowing towards each other, which concludes our little ritual, the ritual of apology and equality, the ritual of balance. It's very old, but Draco and I are from very old families with many equally old ceremonies and rituals.

Offering him the tiniest of smiles, I trapes out of the room, my feet resounding in slight slaps as I exit the Common Room and into the Great Hall. I picture his face as I wander through the halls and down the staircases, and at this moment even the most treacherous parts of my mind refuse to run from all of this. For this reason, I find myself shuddering as I freeze in the doorway, the four tables looming threateningly over me, warning me that very soon nothing will ever be the same.

Just as quickly as the dread fills me, it vanishes from my mind. I've far too many things to solve before I can worry about that, first of which is the figure I notice sitting off to the end of Slytherin Table. He gives me a sidelong glance through half-closed eyes, the lightest of blues glinting against the bright sky above. Like only a true Slytherin would, he cautiously makes his desire known at exactly the right time. As I hear Draco's light footsteps directly behind me, the pair of eyes motion to the spot next to him, the spot belonging to the dangerous loose end of my scheme: Theodore Nott.

I slip next to him and load my plate, pretending not to notice him at all. Eggs, bacon, and muffins quickly pile in front of me before I take my fork and begin shoveling it in, feeling more like a Weasley than I'd care to. They eat like they're starving, the whole lot of them, and it isn't exactly a sight for sore eyes. Still, I'm not exactly going to be eating much this year, and I'd prefer to enjoy while I still can.

"My point stands," Theodore mutters out of the corner of his mouth. I instantly think of yesterday's conversation and how he thought I was planning something that I couldn't live through. He's right, of course, but I'm not going to let down my guard so easily.

"Well Potter's really after that Weasley girl, isn't he then?" I stuff more food into my mouth mid-sentence and make him wait while I chew thoroughly and swallow, gulping down some pumpkin juice before finally finishing. "The way I see it, that makes Weasley my competition, and that means I got to get rid of her. Weasleys eat like their life depends on it, see? I'm simply . . . raising Harry's awareness."

Theodore makes quite the show of ignoring me, picking through a very large stack of mail and flipping several pages into his copy of The Quibbler, a magazine that he likely has no interest in. He pushes the stack into his bag and pulls out a new one, tying it carefully to the owl that I had been ignoring, a large barn owl with an unusual blueish circle covering one eye. Finally, he stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder before looking me square in the eye.

"That's not good enough." He allows his vision to roll off me and onto Daphne Greengrass, who sits across from us. "There's no Herbology after lunch, eh Daphne?"

"Yeah . . ." I don't bother to hear the rest. I'll be meeting Nott in the Room of Requirement after lunch; I've no need to hear his pointless conversation with Daphne necessary to cover it up. I quickly stuff my belongings into my bag and—with a sidelong glance at Draco—leave to get a good spot in Defense Against the Dark Arts, silently pleading Merlin that I might get a spot in the back.

I take in a deep breath and step a foot gingerly over the threshold, shuddering a bit thinking about all the trouble this room has caused me. I remember the day when that horrible Professor Moody (who turned out to not actually be Professor Moody) decided to teach everyone the Unforgivable Curses. For the first time in my life, someone called me out for something that everyone knew. I'll never, ever forget that day.

* * *

"Mr. Zabini, can you list another of the Unforgivable Curses for the class?"

He had already singled out Draco about one of them, and after Draco listed the Cruciatus, Moody had lashed out at him, as though Draco was personally responsible for every Cruciatus Curse that had ever been cast. Without missing a beat, Moody declared that Draco **would** know a lot about those, seeing as his Aunt Bellatrix Lestrange had been known to cast them. Then he took it even further, saying that Neville probably knew about them too. Everyone knew what had happened, and the whole class just sat silent as he demonstrated on a spider.

"Mr. Zabini?" I hadn't been listening, but I knew at once that I was about to be under similar scrutiny, for everyone knew of my mother, and Moody would likely accuse her of using whichever curse I listed, so I chose the easier of the two.

"The Imperious Curse, sir." The words he said next still eat at my mind every now and then.

"I would think you would be well familiar with that one, boy. Would you like to tell us how it feels? I'm sure your mother would understand, academic purposes and all."

I just sat there, stunned. I knew that he would probably say something about her many husbands, something that I too have long held suspicions about, but that what he suggested . . . it made me wonder if it were true. Did I know what it felt like?

"Mr. Zabini, though it's nice of you to try, you and I both know that the Unforgivable Curses don't work from such a long distance. Well, not unless you're he-who-cannot-be-named."

I nearly stood up and walked away right there, but something made me stay. It was like I had to stay, like something or someone was holding me into the chair. My blood felt thick and taut through my veins and I suddenly stood up, and I knew in that moment that Professor Moody really was as mad as his eye. My mouth opened to say something, but it was then that my brain remembered that it had been practicing Occlumency for a reason and cleared the hazy fog that edged at my vision.

"Sir," I said, my voice coming out strong despite the Imperious Curse that the Professor was casting on me, "I don't know how you think you know something like that, but I know of no such thing. I don't know exactly who you think I am, but I assure you that I carry no mark and that my mother serves no life sentence, so I beg your pardon, but I'd greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from threatening me and mine."

I think I must have surprised him, because I felt the alien control fade away. I took my chance and left, though I heard later that he'd interrogated Theodore Nott and accused his father of using the Killing Curse on his mother.

* * *

"Mr. Zabini . . . "

I snap back to the present, suddenly noticing the slow and drawn out speech of Professor Snape, who beckons me towards the front of the class. I numbly twitch a bit before blinking away the past and nodding slowly, making my way to the spot he now gestures towards. I rather mindlessly plop into the chair and pull out my notes, feeling the burning gaze of Draco on the back of my neck. I'll have to explain later, when we're alone in our rooms. Maybe I'll even allow Nott to take part in the conversation.

"As I was saying, Dementors are highly dangerous creatures . . ."

Suddenly I am completely in the moment and shove myself further into the chair, my back straight like an iron rod and my gaze fixed intensely on the Professor, eating any information he can give me on Dementors.

"Now," he continued, "While the origin of Dementors is unknown, the creatures are regarded as one of the most fearsome of creatures. They act as a syphon for hope and happiness. When you are in the presence of a Dementor, you will find that you can't manage to think of anything cheery. Even if you were to succeed at coming up with a happy thought, the presence of a Dementor would alter the memory permanently, causing severe pain to the victim even after the creature is gone.

"Dementors also possess the ability to steal one's soul, a practice that you've likely all heard of, known as the Dementor's Kiss. However, our _beloved _Daily Prophet often fails to express how truly horrible such a thing is. A Dementor's Kiss does not harm you physically, but should you receive one, you would find that your brain would be trapped."

The entire class is as silent as I am at this point, glued to every word that the usually hated professor utters.

"Experimentation," he continues in his slow and accentuated drawl, "shows that under incredibly medicated circumstances, the victim's brain can resurface for a brief period. During that period, however, the victim usually doesn't say a word, preferring instead to scream in agony. The removal of the soul turns the body into a carnal state, causing a great number of symptoms including acting like an animal of some kind as well as physically harming oneself. However, once you have received the Dementor's Kiss, there is nothing that can be done. Once removed, the victim's soul is gone forever."

It's a good thing that everyone is eating Snape's words like buttered popcorn, because I can barely breathe. I feel incredibly cold and the sticky type of damp that tells you you're unwell. I can feel the wood of my desk's arms digging into my palms, but I can't move. There's nothing controlling me now except maybe terror. I know all those things from my own research, but hearing it out loud makes it ten times worse, especially now that I know there is no cure. If Dumbledore can't save me from the Kiss, no one can.

"There is but one known defense against a Dementor . . ." I try to focus on his words instead of my mounting fear, "And that is the Patronus Charm. Now, it is a highly advanced spell and you'll find that the vast majority of wizards aren't capable of producing it in its corporeal form, but if used correctly, the spell can be a very effective means of warding them off.

"To cast a successful Patronus, one must make a conscious effort to focus on a happy memory, using the force of that happiness against the Dementor's own force of despair. Most of you will likely avoid having to use this spell. However, because of its significance in fighting off Dementors, I require each of you to write eight thousand words on the Patronus Charm and its origins. I believe you should be able to find the information you require in the library, unless you're Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley, in which case you'll have Ms. Granger to do your homework for you."

Normally I would laugh and give Hermione a knowing look, but I feel like the human embodiment of ice except for the heat that I feel coursing through my hands against the desk I still grip. Hermione catches my eye, as though to try and defend herself and her friends, but when she catches it, she freezes and a look of worry washes over her face.

"Are you okay," she mouths.

"Blaise, mate, are you alright," Draco hisses into my ear, but I can't even manage a response.

"Blaise," he tries again, "What is it?"

I can feel a single bead of sweat tearing its way down my face and I can't even blink. _What's wrong with you? _I ask myself seriously. If I can't even hear about Dementors without freezing up, what on earth am I going to do in Azkaban?

"Blaise?" I can hear the worry to Draco's voice now, though it's very subtle. I can also see Hermione's eyes glimmering with worry from across the room. Snape has apparently been droning on, but I find that I can't really hear anything. Even Draco's voice sounds like I'm underwater, faint and blurry.

I see the other students packing up their things and heading out the door, but I'm seriously doubting my ability to make it to Potions. I hear a bit off scuffling, like the sand on the bottom of the ocean I'm hearing everything through is being kicked up. I feel a pair of hands vaguely against my shoulders and notice that the world seems to be moving a bit more than it was, but I'm not even sure that it's real anymore.

_Am I passing out?_ I wonder as the edges of my vision begin to twinkle slightly. I hear nothing except for my own breathing and the thumping rhythm of my heart, though it seems to be slowing. My vision turns weirder and darker, like my sight is somehow becoming smaller and smaller and I'm seeing through a tunnel, the light at the end growing further with every passing moment. I allow my eyes to blink very slowly and nearly decide to leave them closed.

Slap! My face stings for the third time in less than a year and suddenly the world comes back in full swing, the light from the sun causing me to flinch away. I press myself into the ground to shield my eyes. I notice Draco leaning over me, the mask of his completely down and showing his true concern.

"Blaise, are you alright?" His tone reminds me of the tone I heard him use when he begged his father to stop hitting his mother and I know what he's feeling: fear. It's his tone of desperation, a tone that he tries really hard to control; but whenever there's something to be said in this state, it always comes out flustered and grave.

"Blaise?" he repeats, concern filling even more of his face.

"Hmm," is all I manage to get out, closing my eyes again.

"Blaise, come on, talk to me."

I mumble incoherently and feel a rush of fatigue slamming into my body.

"Blaise, come on, don't scare me like this! You have to be okay!" I can hear the panic rising, but I'm so tired that my fingers are lead and my mouth is thick like peanut butter. "Blaise don't do this to me!"

He never used to care so much, but when I happened upon his father beating his own wife and shared my own life troubles with Draco, we suddenly became best friends, and best friends with such heavy secrets must remain close.

"Draco?" I manage to mumble out, fighting a stunning headache as I attempt to lean against my elbow.

"Blaise!" A look of relief fills his face and it contorts to what is nearly a laugh before turning stormy again. "Don't do that to me, I was about to take you to see Madam Pomfrey."

"Sorry . . ."

"Sorry? What was all of that about anyway? It was just Dementors! Don't tell me you're becoming like Scar Head and fearing them!"

My mind chooses now to wake up and it's a good thing, too. Draco can't know how afraid I am: it could ruin everything. Though a small part of me wants to tell him everything and convince him not to become a Death Eater, I know it wouldn't work anyway.

"No, no, it's not that . . ."

"Then what? You didn't even enter the room until Professor Snape extended you an invitation!"

And there is my out. "It's just . . . do you remember the last Defense Professor, just before Umbridge?"

"That Moody bloke who turned out to not even be Moody?"

"Yeah."

Draco waits for a few seconds before raising an eyebrow, "Well?"

"Well, do you remember the day he taught us about the Unforgivable Curses? When he singled us all out and may as well have declared our families to be followers of the Dark Lord?"

Draco eyes me suspiciously, ". . . yeah."

"Well, it's what I said."

"What, about not bearing a Dark Mark and your mother not using the Imperious Curse?"

"Well," I duck my face away from his line of sight, "What if I was wrong?"

Draco jumps back from me in surprise before leaning against the tree next to me. "What, you mean you have a Dark Mark. I think I would know if you had a Dark Mark, Blaise."

_You have no idea_ I think to myself before replying. "No, I meant my mother. What if she does use the Imperious Curse?"

Draco snorts derisively, "I doubt it. I mean, come on mate, she's your mother. She's like, the least powerful witch out there besides maybe that crazy old bat of a Divination professor, what was her name . . . Barkgrassy? And besides, your mother is known for being one of the most beautiful people alive, there's no way she would even need an Imperious Curse."

"Well that's what I thought, too, but then it made me wonder if maybe Moody chose the wrong person to call out when he asked about Avada Kedavra."

"What, you mean your mother's been killing people? You're joking, right?"

I lift my face to meet his gaze, "Well, it makes sense, I mean, how unlucky can you possibly be? She's been married thirteen times, Draco! Thirteen! They can't all have tragically died, could they have?" These questions really have been bothering me for some time, but they need to be more passionate than they might have been before to make up for going into shock of some sort over Dementors.

Draco glances around the yard, letting out a slight sigh of relief as he notices no one around us. I've kept my voice to a fierce whisper, but both of us know the danger of others hearing about my mother or either of our families for that matter. I mentally kick myself for forgetting, but there's no time for that now.

"Look," he finally lets out, "I guess that there is a chance that she's been ridding herself of her problems somehow but worrying about it isn't going to help anything. You know that you've always got me to talk to if you need to, but let's not have any more mental breakdowns about it okay." He leans in so that his mouth is pressed directly against my ear before adding, "I need you too much to lose you."

That's almost the end of my plan in a single sentence, because that's exactly what's going to happen. He's going to lose me, either because he's mad that I left his side of the war or simply because I'll be rotting in Azkaban serving a life sentence unless Dumbledore rescues me. For a heartbeat, I want nothing more than to tell him everything, but I can't.

Draco stands up abruptly and reaches down to help me up. "Come on," he smiles a tiny bit, "Let's get to Potions."

I nod and take his arm as we head to the class that has long been my favourite. This year is a bit different, though, because of a certain new professor: Professor Slughorn. We're only a few weeks in and Professor Slughorn is already proving that his classroom environment will be quite unusual in that the best example he can give us is always somehow related to Harry Potter. Funny, when Snape was the Professor, Potter never could receive so much as a head nod. All of Snape's praise seemed reserved Draco, his godson and admittedly quite the student. This unexpected change of pace really has Draco irked, and the rest of the class isn't trailing too far behind.

"Good morning everyone." Professor Slughorn takes his place at the front of the classroom, yawning openly though it's nine in the morning. "Good morning Harry!" He straightens a bit and smiles brightly at the boy.

Harry has the decency to blush a bit and stand further behind Hermione before muttering, "Morning Professor."

"Where was I," Slughorn hums a bit, "Ah yes! Today's lesson!"

"Wow, it seems Harry Potter knocks the thoughts right out of him," Draco whispers in my ear, "Would you do us all the kind honor of teaching this class so that I might stare at you, oh Boy-Who-Lived?" He smirks in triumph and nods his head, likely planning on telling Harry all about it later.

I glance over at Slughorn and witness him rifling through a large stack of paper on his desk, muttering the word no loud enough that the entire class can hear him. Did he even prepare the lesson today? I look over at Hermione and barely suppress a chuckle. She's glaring at him fiercely, daring him to waste another precious second of her learning time as she absentmindedly flips through her textbook, probably dying to brew just one of the high-level potions that it contains. It's now I come up with a little plan.

"Draco," I whisper, not daring to look over at him.

"What?"

"I'm going to brew a sleeping draught."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

I feel Draco's burning stare on my face and turn to meet his eyes, thoroughly expecting disdain for my very un-Slytherin action—bravery is a Gryffindor thing after all—but instead they gleam with suppressed laughter. His eyes fill with liquid and his breathing is ragged for a few moments before he seems to gain composure.

"So, you who has faked bad grades for about an eternity, are about to show off in front of the entire class and make that fat old slug look like a fool, all the while showing up his beloved Harry potter?"

I nod, forcing a serious look to etch itself onto my features.

"Just tell me what you need."

I can't help the smirk that sweeps my face. "I need Lavender, four sprigs of it. I also need six measures of standard ingredient, two blobs of flobberworm mucus, and four Valerian sprigs."

Draco nods and slips from behind the desk, barely making a sound as he heads over to the cabinets. Slughorn doesn't seem to notice, as he's still rifling through papers, occasionally asking Harry a question about a particular potion that he ends up answering himself before chuckling and saying something along the lines of Harry not wanting to show off.

Draco's movements don't escape Hermione, though, and she swiftly turns to look at me. I smile and shrug innocently, taking the ingredients and cauldron from Draco as soon as he has them.

"Watch and learn," I mutter to Draco, still looking in Hermione's direction so that she can read my lips.

Flicking my wand out, I mutter a silencing shield and light a flame under my cauldron. I've made this potion several times and probably won't explode anything, but it's best not to risk it. I fill the cauldron with a water charm and dump in the Standard ingredient, chopping my lavender into a fine powder as I wait for it to smell of earth. Next I drop in the lavender a pinch at a time into the now brownish liquid, stirring counterclockwise twice after each new addition. I let it sit for about five minutes, glancing up from time to time at the still oblivious professor.

Now that the potion is a blood red color, I place the first blob of flobberworm mucus directly into the center of the potion, muttering a heating spell as I swish my wand back and forth across the surface of it. The cauldron hisses and turns the liquid into a steaming mass of light purple, indicating its near completion. I add the second blob of flobberworm in exactly the same way, this time turning the potion a few shades darker.

The Valerian sprigs at this point have been crushed and I pour the juice into the potion, stirring it twenty-five times in a clockwise direction and then four in a counterclockwise direction. Finally, I throw in the sprigs themselves, heating the potion more this time by increasing the size of the flame and thus engulfing the entire thing in a mass of bright orange. The potion hisses once more but this time doesn't steam, instead glowing a vibrant and deep purple color.

I smile as I ladle my potion into a bottle and pop on a cork. Then I put on an air of self-importance that I learned from my mother and make my way to the front of the room, turning my nose up at anyone who dares to look at me. With a thud I settle the potion onto Slughorn's desk, making sure that it is directly in front of the stack of papers he's been wasting his time with.

"Mr. . . . Zabini, is it? What's this?" Slughorn asks me quietly, as though I were some shy child with a question that I couldn't ask in front of the whole class. It's like he doesn't even know what House I'm in. I didn't make this potion to present to him quietly, though.

"This, professor, is a completed Sleeping Draught, one of the proper potions for this class level, I believe." I turn and walk to my seat, forcing down the laughter that threatens to spill.

"I . . . I . . . I don't know what to say, Mr. Zabini, except that this is a highly dangerous potion to brew and you should not have—"

I don't hear the last part of what Slughorn says though, because the entire classroom erupts in laughter and several of the higher-level students nod at me, impressed. Draco is absolutely howling, and even Hermione shoots me a small smile. The only people in the room not laughing are Slughorn, Harry, and Ronald Weasley, though Weasley would probably be laughing as well if it weren't a Slytherin who just showed up the Professor.

Normally I would be worried about the consequences of such an action, but I know for a fact that Slughorn will proceed as if this had never happened. To admit what I've done would be to admit failure, and Snape would never let him hear the end of it were he to find out that a student had shown up someone who likely had claimed to be better in potions.

I smile as I stuff my belongings into my bag and waltz towards the exit. Professor Slughorn wasted the entire class time going through papers. As I reach the doorway, I nod curtly at Potter and Weasley before turning and running down the hall, letting out deep and throaty laughs as I go. Though Ron Weasley is an irritating bloke, I'm beginning to develop a bit of respect for Fred and George Weasley, the former kings of the position that I'm currently holding: class clown.


	5. Plot Twists

**So this chapter is really just three stories of my current main side characters all shoved into one chapter, but I actually don't hate it, so here it is.**

**Chapter Five: ****_Plot Twists_**

I run my fingers through my curls as I rest my hand against my head. I lean back in my armchair and rest my left leg over the right one. The fireplace of the Room of Requirements roars beside me, the flames flickering an unearthly purplish. The heat trails almost uncomfortably against the back of my pantleg and the rest of the room. I can feel the dampness in my hair and the stickiness on my forehead, but I'm hoping that this will help cover up my nervousness.

Theodore Nott is a Slytherin, and Slytherins are dangerous. I'm dangerous in my own right, but not like the others. The trouble is that everyone's faking—everyone—because if you're from a pureblood family, there are certain expectations that you must fill. Aside from that even is the fact that the Slytherin House has a reputation of being exactly what everyone pretends to be: cruel, unforgiving, and angry at the world. I'm not sure when these qualities became associated with Slytherin or if there were ever many that actually were the things that the rest of us fake. This game of pretend is dangerous because you will never know what you're truly dealing with unless they choose to show it to you, and most chose not to show it.

"Blaise Zabini, what a pleasure it is that you chose to show up." Theodore speaks clearly and beautifully, never faltering on a single syllable, but there's something quite close to a sneer about it in the way that the last few words are accentuated more than the rest.

"I'm not calling you by your full name, Theodore."

Theodore shrugs. "Call me Theo, then. I have a feeling that we're going to become . . . Quite. Close." He closes the several feet between us and seats himself on the armchair across from me, a velvety black thing with gold nails studding the back of it. He places himself lightly on the edge of it and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He blows a few strands of his dirty blonde hair from his eyes and then gazes at me innocently, practically begging me to respond somehow.

"Fine . . . Theo. Call me Blaise."

"Blaise, Blaise, Blaise," Theodore sits up straighter and chuckles, "Everyone calls you Blaise." Theodore makes a face, "_Zabini is my father's name_."

"First of all, I do **not **sound like that . . ."

Theodore snorts, "I was only teasing. I already said that we're going to become close friends, so the least you can do is humor me."

"Fine, but seriously, not even Draco calls me anything but Blaise. I guess you could call me Augustus from my middle name, but I wouldn't recommend it." I uncross my legs and plant both feet firmly on the floor with a slight thud. Then I simply look at him, my eyes hopefully devoid of emotion, but he can more than likely tell that I'm losing patience.

"Augustus it is then!" He smiles brightly, a look that nearly makes me jump back in surprise. It's not common to see a Slytherin with such a smile. He looks almost . . . hopeful.

The harsh tone vanishes from my tongue before I can blink; the words I say next losing their venom. "What do you want, Theo?"

"I think I made that pretty clear when I confronted you about it, but I'll . . . humor . . . you." Theo unties his tie and allows the emerald thing to hang like a scarf, scooching farther into the chair and resting a single arm on the seat.

I ignore him for the time being and instead raise my wand and extinguish the freakish flames from the fireplace, allowing the torches to vaguely light the room. Shadows quickly fill the space and cover a fair bit of our existence, leaving only half of Theo's face visible.

Theo reaches for his own wand and stands. He snatches up a log left near the fireplace and sets it in the middle of the large room before striding back to his chair and sitting on the edge of it again. He pauses for so long that I'm about to ask why on earth he felt the need to move the log at all. Suddenly, he smoothly twists his body to look at the log and transfigures it into a detailed chandelier with the crests of each House and several crystals.

"Wingadium Leviosa," he mutters as the chandelier lifts itself towards the ceiling. Then he seals it to its place and lights the candles—all without leaving the chair.

My eyes widen and my mouth drops, leaving me with nothing at all to say.

"My father," Theo begins as though the magic he just preformed was basic, "is a man that I am not proud of, nor do I wish to follow his footsteps. He abuses power, hurts people, and is a slobbering drunk. He is, as I said earlier, an arsehole. I know how this game works, Augustus, so I'm going to let you in on a bit of a secret.

"I know that you remember that lecture from Professor Moody when he called all of us out—you, me, and Draco—for the things that our parents allegedly do or have done. The thing is, the allegation against my father is true in a way. While he didn't use Avada Kedavra, he did kill my mother."

There's something about the way that he says it that makes me certain that it's true. Between that and the fact that he showed me the likely remnants of his Dark Mark, I think there might be something to his claim that we'll be close friends.

"He was drunk," Theo continues much to my surprise, "He was always drunk. He is always drunk. My mum was never in good health anyway, and when he pushed her out of the window . . ." The smooth perfection of his voice melts away, replaced by something raw, something edgier. "She just . . . died. She was gone. Gone and I doubt he even looked down. He just stayed up in his study, leaving me to tend to the rest."

"The-allegations-against-my-mother-are-true-too!" I blurt before I can think twice.

"I beg your pardon?" Theo's voice has fallen back to its usual grace.

"The . . . my mother . . . she . . . Well, I can't prove it, but I have to believe that she's been using the Imperious Curse. She's been married ten times and is engaged again to an eleventh. And it's not an accident! All of these people . . . they get richer and richer as she goes. We have a fortune massive enough that it is surpassed only by the Malfoy family, and we're not even among the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Theo nods slowly, and I can tell that a certain amount of trust now exists between us. It's partly like the bond that first held Draco and I. I wonder if Moody knew that what he was saying was almost true or not, and not for the first time. Theo seems to be thinking the same thing before he snaps to attention and nods again.

"So, what is this plan of yours to save the world, and how can I help to make it happen?"

I fill Theo in on every detail, from linking Draco and Hermione's minds to staging Dumbledore's death to double crossing the Dark Lord. He sits quietly throughout the entire thing, looking interested when I explain Horcruxes and in near awe of me when I tell him about my stay in Azkaban.

"So," he says when I finish, "What do you need me to do?"

"Stay here, at Hogwarts."

Theo looks for an instant like he's going to protest, but he lets out a long breath instead. "Do you care to elaborate on that a bit?"

"Look, Theo, it's not going to be safe for anyone during this time, but even more so for the students that I'm leaving behind. Dumbledore won't be here anymore; he'll be with the Order of the Phoenix. I'll be in Azkaban, Hermione will be gone with Harry Potter, and Draco will likely be held up in his own home. Who will protect them?

"I want you to be the world's biggest suck-up to whatever force of evil ends up there. I want them to love you, but I want you to do simple things, too, little things that are merciful, like letting kids out of their punishments early, little things like making sure that their lives are bearable. But in the end, I want you to turn on the people that end up in charge. Turn on them at just the right moment and hold up Hogwarts as a stronghold until the Order of the Phoenix can come and take charge. Will you do that for me?"

"If it's what needs to be done than I will be glad to do it." He nods earnestly, his eyebrows set and his blue eyes gleaming in determination. "But one thing: this mission of yours. Does it require you to be marked?" He pulls up his left sleeve to reveal the deep scarring again.

"It already did," is all I can say. I pull my left sleeve up and let my forearm be exposed to the air. I look away as best I can but am determined to hold my arm steady.

"It's hard to look at, I know." Theo trains his eye on it as he continues, "I know mine scarred me worse than anything else probably ever will."

"I can barely stand to look at it."

"I couldn't at all. It's why I burned it off, or I tried to. It's coming back though. It's seeping out from under the scar tissue. To think that I nearly killed myself for something that won't be covered."

"Heh . . . I just hate that it had to come to this. I hate that the world is failing and that they couldn't manage to properly kill the Dark Lord all those years ago."

Theo nods, standing up abruptly and twisting his tie back into the fancy knot that holds it and shows his social standing. He walks over to the door and swings it open, flashing me a sad smile before turning and leaving.

* * *

"Where were you?" Draco doesn't bother to look up from his textbook.

"Oh, you know . . . around."

Draco sighs and snaps his book shut. He slowly raises his gaze to match mine before lifting his hand to his chin and massaging it. He sighs again and motions to the seat next to him, a seat that I quickly take.

"Around?" he questions, "You missed lunch." He scans me up and down, a bit of concern glimmering in his grey eyes.

I take this chance to check up on him. His eyes look tired. He's probably been missing sleep, which isn't normal for Draco. His eyes are framed by slightly red flesh that is pulling taught around them. His skin also clings to his cheekbones more than they have in the past. He's not been eating well since the beginning of last year. His uniform is perfect, however, so at least he hasn't lost his need to look the part.

"Blaise, it's that thing from earlier, isn't it?" Draco's words pull me from my thoughts.

"Huh?"

"That thing . . . you know . . . from earlier?"

"Yeah." I hate lying to him, but it must be done. "Let's not talk about that though, okay?"

Draco nods, "How about how you showed that Slug up without him even knowing it!"

I smile coyly, "I know. I was kind of hoping that it meant that I can stay out of the Slug Club, but I shall have no such luck." I reach a thumb and finger up and pretend to curl my mustache. "I am eternally indebted to you, your greatness Professor Slughorn. It would be my delight to represent the great and honorable house Zabini in your esteemed presence, my Lord." I look down my nose at Draco with an over-the-top frown.

Draco laughs. "You poor bloke. Who else is in the club besides precious, perfect Potter?" He spits the every "p" in the sentence.

"Umm . . . let me think. McCormac, Granger . . . oh, and you'll love this: Weasley's been invited, but not Ronald. Actually, Slughorn invited his younger sister Ginny."

"His misfortune is entertaining," Draco smiles, "His blood boils too easily, it's just so good!"

"Well some good that'll do me, stuck at some stupid dinner party and my best mate isn't even invited! What's that all about?"

Draco's smile vanishes, replaced by a dark grimace. "I think you and I both know the answer to that one."

"Yeah," I nod, "Too bad, though. Can you imagine the look on Weasley's face if he realized that you were invited, and he wasn't? Why, I think his head might actually explode! And then we could play all nicey-nice with his baby sister and he'll really be mad. If he attacks us first then we'd be blameless!"

"Since when did you become such a schemer?" Draco chuckles.

"Um, since always!"

_Wouldn't you like to know, _I think to myself.

"You just never _bothered _to notice," I sniff dramatically, "I'm offended!" I turn my head sharply away from him with a pout.

"Oh, come on, you know I can't have that! Pansy's bad enough with her constant need for attention. You think that she would just leave me alone once and a while!"

"But she's been your crush for like ever, and now when she finally notices you, now you want out?"

"Well . . . I grew up, okay. And Pansy didn't."

"Wow! What a discovery! By golly, Sherlock, you've done it again!"

"Sherlock?"

_Oops, _I mentally curse myself before launching into an elaborate cover-up. As far as Draco knows, I hate Muggleborns just as much as he does, though I'm hoping that will change by the end of the war.

"It's just a stupid story my mother used to tell me when I was lying to her. She'd tell me about this wizard who could always tell who'd really committed the crimes that no one else could solve. He used some advanced spell or something. Mother would say that she personally knew this Sherlock gent and that he owed her a favour, a favour that she would call in unless I told her the truth. I didn't believe her, of course; it just sort of stuck with me."

"That's . . . odd."

"I know! I'm not even sure why I thought of it all the sudden. Anyway, so Pansy's out of the picture . . . who's the new future Mrs. Malfoy?"

"I don't know," he scoffs, "how about you tell me all about the future Mrs. Millicent Zabini?"

"As if!" I shout a little too loudly. Madame Pince shoots me an angry glare.

Draco snickers. "Well then who are you after if it's not Millicent. You snogged her awfully well."

"First off, I did **not** snog her, I gave her a kiss!"

"Funny, because that's not what literally the entire school is saying . . ."

"What do they know."

"Well?"

"It's obvious that you will be introduced to my future wife in good time, mate. It'll just be difficult to arrange a meeting with the future Mrs. Ginny Zabini, that's all."

"Weasley's baby sister! Why on earth would you do that?"

"I think it's rather obvious. What would make Ronald Weasley's blood boil more than that?"

"Um, if I married . . ." Draco gags. "If I married Granger."

"Well I suppose that would do the trick, but last I checked, nifflers don't shoot lightning bolts."

"So, Mrs. Ginny Weasley-Zabini it is!"

"Oh, she can keep her name. As a matter of fact, I'll take it too! Not only will I have stolen his baby sister away, but I'll also be the more famous of the two of us, so he'll be reminded of what I've taken from him every time he sees "Mr. Blaise Weasley" on the front of the Daily Prophet!"

Draco grins, "Have I ever told you what a genius you are?"

"No, I can't say that you have."

"Well I'm saying it now—"

"—and it is very true!"

Draco smacks me in the shoulder. "Don't you have homework to do?"

I make a pouty face and snatch the Transfiguration book right off of Draco's stack.

* * *

My feet create ripples in the water as I glide them through it. I close my eyes and sigh, leaving the world behind as I allow the lake to soak into my toes. The grass feels soft beneath my fingertips and reminds me of stroking a cat—my old cat—Whiskers. He was a tiny grey and white speckled thing with oddly blue eyes for a cat, sparkling in the sun and darkening into huge orbs in the moonlight. He purred whenever I got within six feet of him and always rushed up to me, thrusting his head against my hand or leg.

I got him as a Christmas present from my father's mother, the grandmother I never saw again after he left. My mother couldn't say no with my grandmother in the room, so Whiskers became my new best friend. I told that cat everything that ever mattered to me; I fed him my dinner when my parents refused to feed him, and I kept him in my room at night just so I could feel safe. Whiskers used to growl at balloons, so of course I popped any in sight to keep him safe like he kept me safe at night. Whiskers caught a mouse for me every morning, much to the disgust of my mother. He never ate them; he would just bring them to me, wait for me to acknowledge that he had brought one, and then take it outside.

One day, Whiskers didn't bring the mouse to my door. I went outside in my pajamas to look for him. I called his name for hours before I finally found him, purring as usual, but something was terribly wrong. He was almost entirely tangled in barbed wire in the woods behind the house. His little body was nearly torn to shreds, blood seeping out everywhere. The minute I saw him I knew I couldn't save him; that he wasn't going to make it. Still, he thrust his head as best he could into my hand when I finally reached him. We just sat there—him dying with his head cuddled against my hand—for a few hours until he finally passed.

I sat there for a long time after, crying my eyes out and desperately missing my cat. Whiskers had been there for me through everything, and I hadn't been able to help him in the end. I made a grave for him, a grave right outside the house in the front lawn. It was made with the biggest rock I could haul over there. My father helped me move it there, actually. I think he might have truly felt bad for me that day. Anyway, he stood quietly to the side as I piled it high with all the flowers and mouse bones—I found where Whiskers had been dumping them—that I could find. Then he left me there, left me to sob into the night, crying out for a cat: a cat who had become my family.

I feel a single tear roll down my cheek and I open my eyes, gazing across the lake. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and I swiftly reach to wipe the tear away. Another hand pushes my hand away before I can accomplish the task, however.

"You shouldn't be ashamed to cry, you know." Hermione. She lowers herself to the ground next to me.

"I'm not ashamed. I'm Slytherin. I'm being what's necessary. How'd you find me here, anyway?"

"I found a few of your things in the Room of Requirements and put a tracking spell on them that led me here. But don't change the subject!"

"Fine, fine . . . what do you want to know?"

"Are all Slytherins great actors, or are you simply a rarity?" Hermione stares into my eyes excitedly, an unquenchable thirst for knowledge welling deep inside her soul.

"Yes and no. The ones for whom it's been shoved down their throats since infancy, yes. The ones who stupidly hope to change Slytherin from the inside, no."

"And which are you?"

"Well I don't have any delusions of changing Slytherin . . . so the first."

"And you've been shoved into a role since you were a child?" Hermione looks horrified and I half expect her to invite me over for Christmas and knit me one of those horrifying Weasley sweaters out of pity.

"Hermione! I'm fine, really." I turn and nod seriously.

"But why? Why would your own mother try to get you to be something that you're not?"

I close my eyes for a minute, begging my brain to come up with an answer. "The house of Zabini isn't one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but it certainly isn't for lack of effort on my mother's part," I finally say quietly, hoping she'll understand the meaning behind my roundabout answer, which is that I don't want to talk about this.

"What's the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

I sigh loudly, giving her a look that I hope shows my exasperation. "The Sacred Twenty-Eight belongs to the oldest and highest esteemed pureblood families. It gets you special treatment usually, as well as the 'great right' to host a family ball every year and the same 'right' to attend all of the others. There's even an official book with all families listed, though there's only like fifteen of those families left."

"That's so odd! So basically, you get extra stuff and you have to host and attend balls?"

"That and you can't marry anyone outside of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"Or what?"

"Or your family is officially removed as well as shunned by the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"Oh. I thought you were going to say something really horrible."

"Well . . . there's also that your families' estate is burned to the ground."

Hermione gulps. "Oh."

"Kidding!" I wink playfully, a wink that is returned with a scowl.

"Blaise," she yelps as she smacks my arm lightly, "Can you please be honest with me? What does forcing you into some particular person have to do with the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

"I can't."

Hermione stands up and begins to walk away, hurt sparkling in the depths of her eyes and her cheeks glowing red with a likely justifiable anger.

"—Wait!" I cry instantly, catching her wrist with my hand.

Hermione turns sharply and takes in a breath. I can almost feel the bit of hope welling inside of her.

"I . . ." I fight for the right words, knowing what a hole I can dig myself into without care. "It's just that . . . it's not pretty, you know? It's not a happy ending. My childhood wasn't great and the reason that I don't want to tell you is that I can't handle another sympathetic look or an attempt at comforting me. It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, because I know that sympathy means that people care, but it's just . . . sympathy is kind of like reliving it over and over again. I just can't."

"Okay," Hermione breathes, "but can you please tell me already?" She drops down next to me again, this time thrusting her own shoes and socks off and dipping her feet into the cool water of the lake. The dirt below the water's surface puffs up in clouds as her feet hit it, reminiscent of the dirt I'm about to relive.

"When I was little I thought we were happy. I was wrong. My father left on my eighth birthday and things went down hill quickly after that. She took a holiday without me, and I was rather devastated. I discovered more and more in the aftermath the extent of her indifference towards me. She didn't want me and didn't have much to do with me. I was brought out to see her friends for a while, but when I was no longer 'cute' that stopped. She remarried—what is it now—eleven times. I'm almost positive that she's either been using the Imperious Curse or the Killing Curse on them, or maybe both.

"She basically is content to ignore me, only bringing me out now on occasion because her rich old friends think that I'm something to look at. I may not have the Malfoys for parents, but I guess there is no pureblood family without its drama, except maybe the stupid Weasley family. But remember . . . I want no sympathy. None."

"Stupid?" Hermione tries to raise an eyebrow, an effort that pushes a laugh right from my throat.

I lay back in the grass and allow myself to laugh for quite a while, the sound of it echoing across the water and making it louder still.

"Stupid indeed," I finally exclaim. "Have you seen Ronald's report card? Besides Crabbe and Goyle, I think he has the lowest grades in the entire school!"

"Hey now!" Hermione protests, "Don't discredit them all! Fred and George are highly successful pranksters, Bill is a cursebreaker, and Ginny is perfectly smart in her own right!"

"Maybe they should rid themselves of Ronald then, in that case?" I mutter this under my breath just loud enough so that Hermione can hear me before snatching up my shoes and socks and taking off through the grass. When I've had plenty of time to escape her, I turn and wink again before disappearing behind the castle.

**Side note: I wasn't originally going to include Theodore Nott in my cast of characters, but I think that he'll help aid in character development, which you'll see in future chapters.**


	6. A Lesson in Humility

**Chapter Six: ****_A Lesson in Humility_**

I've spent a large portion of my life ensuring that people ignore me. I've always said very little in conversations and if you had asked someone what they knew about me, they would restate my name with a puzzled expression, one of those faces that kind of blends into the background and fades into nothing more than a random wall poster in memory: easily ignored. I've also been certain never to accomplish anything so that my name never showed up on documents or in speeches. I was never the student who saved Slytherin at the last minute with additional House points or the first kid on the Quidditch tryouts list. Basically, I've existed not to exist.

I have never missed those days more than I do now, crossing the threshold of the Great Hall amidst utter and complete silence, all students making no attempt to hide their staring. Any conversations that had been going on died as soon as I stepped through the doorway and I catch sight of an owl, perched on my usual seat, an owl that I know.

The owl has beady purple eyes that make you involuntarily shudder and great black spots that make you think it was burned in some horrible accident or perhaps an experiment gone terribly wrong. The owl has talons that literally glint in the light of the false sky above with a silvery shine. The owl has always creeped me out and it belongs to my mother.

It stares at me with the rest of the room, except it stares through the slits it calls pupils and slowly yet fluidly tilts its head to the side, eying me like its next kill. In its talon is gripped a letter, but it's not just any letter . . . it's a Howler.

_What did I do? _I think frantically, trying to come up with something. There's no answer to be found, however, so I do the only thing I can think of and continue towards the long bench. I hold my head high and force my arms to swing carelessly at my sides. I try to force a smile on my face, but then I catch Draco's eye. He shakes his eyes only, but it's enough. As I near my spot, he lifts his plate ever so slightly to reveal a pile of ashes: the remnant of his own Howler and a clear sign that I'm not the only one being subjected to yells.

"Father," is all he mouths, and with the close timing of the two, I know that it's not a coincidence. I gulp involuntarily and gingerly take my seat, shaking with anticipation. I reach for the letter and—at a speed that now rivals a drunken turtle—open it.

"BLAISE AUGUSTUS ZABINI," it shrieks, eliciting laughs from around me and a bright flush from my own cheeks. Nothing is quite as embarrassing as your mother screaming at you in public.

"YOU HAVE COMPLETELY SHAMED ME! YOU ARE LUCKY THAT I'M NOT LEAVING YOU ON THE STREET!"

I must have really screwed up for her to toss aside the customs that demand a united family front. This thought scares me even worse, and I find myself gnawing at my lip.

"I THOUGHT THAT YOU KNEW TO BEHAVE YOURSELF, YOUNG MAN! SNOGGING THAT POOR GIRL WAS UNCALLED FOR AND IMPROPER! YOU ARE TO COME HOME THIS INSTANT ON A SPECIAL LEAVE FROM THE HEADMASTER! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY SON OF MINE RUINING THIS FAMILY'S REPUTATION!"

You would think that it would be better now that it was over, but you'd be wrong. I could practically die right before the entire population of Hogwarts of embarrassment. My face is flaming, and I notice Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter laughing hysterically at the Gryffindor table, the rest of the students in the hall either following suite or trying to avoid my glare. I turn to Draco, and he looks as embarrassed as I do, not to mention more tired than usual. His eyes have a hollow look to them that no amount of food could ever fill, the look of someone who knows of their coming and unstoppable doom.

That look behind his eyes is enough for me to want to do something, enough for me to cast aside my own embarrassment. So, I do the only thing I can think of: I begin to laugh like Potter and Weasley, only louder and lengthier. I stand up from my chair and throw myself to the ground, choking out laughter in great heaves and rolling in fits of hysteria. I laugh so hard that tears begin to streak down my face. After a few seconds, I allow myself to calm down and smile as if for unseen cameras.

I allow the flush to disappear from my features before standing and dusting off my robes. I carefully brush the ashes that remain of the Howler into my hand and begin to skip about the room, sprinkling them as I go. A pinch for Harry Potter, a touch for Ernie MacMillan, and the largest dash for Ronald Weasley, sprinkled directly in front of his nose.

I chuckle lightly and then make my way over to Millicent herself, grabbing her hand with a sweep of my arm. Then I kiss her hand lightly before pressing my lips into hers and dipping her nearly to the floor without breaking the kiss. When I pull away, I grin boldly at her and turn to do the same for the rest of the school. I bolt up to the teacher's eating area and slide behind the podium before anyone can stop me.

"Fifty points to Slytherin for an outright magnificent show," I bellow deeply in my most over-the-top formal voice, "—And! Fifty points from Gryffindor for the existence of Ronald Weasley!" I turn to see Professor McGonagall approaching me with a look that tells me she's running out of ideas for how to handle me. Unluckily for her, I have no plans of getting caught today.

"That will be all!" I call hastily before taking off again. I quickly mutter a spell and the entire room fills with roses so high that several heads are completely covered.

"For you, Millicent," I call over the top of the screaming that's beginning to fill the room, "My one, true love!" With that, I blow a final kiss in her direction and take off, running out of the Great Hall without having eaten my food for what feels like the millionth time.

* * *

When Draco finally catches up with me, I'm shoving several robes into my black and gold-studded trunk, along with my cauldron that's dingy with overuse and my Transfiguration book. I doubt that I'll have much time for homework while I'm gone, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

"What . . ." Draco begins, a frown on his face but a twinkle in his eye, "in Merlin's name was that?"

"That," I begin with an equally solemn tone, "was what we call fun. You really ought to try it sometime." I finish the statement with a wink, not entirely sure when they became second nature.

"Fun?" Draco's jaw drops disbelievingly, and he raises an eyebrow dramatically, something I know he's only doing because we're alone. Still, I'm happy to be rubbing off on him.

"Aww come on, you know my mother's being ridiculous anyways. No one is ever going to let us into the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and if anyone is a disgrace to the family, it's her and all her failed marriages. I'm simply making the most of a messed-up situation."

Draco chuckles lightly, "That's fair," he admits with a slight nod, "It's also what mine was about, by the way. My father questioned me hanging out with such a loose cannon, or as he put it, a liability."

"Oh my goodness!" I exclaim with a smirk, "We must raise your insurance rates!"

Draco's eyebrow shoots up again, this time in confusion, and I realize that I've done it again. Just like Sherlock Holmes, insurance rates aren't something that I should know about.

"You know . . . insurance? I heard about it during that summer trip when I went to visit mother's husband's mother: my step-grandmother, I guess. She was telling me all about it, how you pay a group of wizards to protect your things, as in _insure _them against threats. If something happens to make protecting it more dangerous, like if there's somebody who wants you dead or is a 'loose cannon' . . ." I make quotation marks in the air, "They raise the rate at which you pay for this insurance against threats, also known as the insurance rate."

Draco simply stares, incredulous.

"I dunno, mate, maybe she was messing with me. She didn't seem to like me much."

He nods curtly, "She must have been, because I've never, ever heard of such a thing."

"Anyways . . ." I continue onwards, "do you think Ginny Weasley could be convinced to come home with me?"

Draco makes a gagging noise and scrunches his face in disgust, "Why on earth would you want _that_?"

"Very funny . . ." I roll my eyes. "But can't you imagine how irritated with me mother would be if I not only 'snogged' some random Slytherin girl, but I also had the audacity to bring back with me another random girl, a girl who is not only from Gryffindor, but also is from a family of blood traitors. Hell, I'd pay her practically all the galleons I can put my name to if she'd come with me!"

"You really do want to die, don't you."

"Draco, Draco, Draco," I wag my finger in the air, "You misunderstand. I want my mother to die from shock and then roll over in her grave when I defy the odds and marry Ginny Weasley!"

"Again with the marrying her thing! Blaise, you have to stop saying that! I know that you're joking and only out for a laugh, but imagine what might happen to you if word gets out? There are plenty of pure blood activists that could do who knows what to you and wouldn't hesitate if they thought that you were about to marry into a family like _that_."

"But don't you ever wonder if it'd be worth it? Worth it to defy our parents and make choices of our own for a change?" I know it's a long shot right now, but I have to try.

Draco glances around wildly and clamps his hand over my mouth. "Blaise!" he demands, elbowing me in the ribcage, "Don't be stupid! You know that purebloods are the only wizards that deserve their magic! Stop this nonsense! I don't want to have to publicly shun you!"

"Draco," I answer when he releases me, "What if we actually had a choice?"

Draco turns on his heel and heads towards the door. He stops and turns to face me before opening the door. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but this needs to stop. I won't be in contact with you until you get back here, whenever that is. It'll appease my father and hopefully give you some time to think about what's really important here. Put this nonsense away and we can still be friends, which is what I think both of us want. Goodbye Blaise."

I sigh dejectedly, slightly hurt that he's so narrow-minded. I knew he would be this way, of course, but if there was any way to save him besides the elaborate plan that I have in place, I would do it in a heartbeat. Regardless, I refuse to turn towards where he was standing until I'm certain that he's far away.

* * *

Pureblood houses are all the same. It's probably a stereotype of some sort, but I'm telling you that it's true. My house—not that I really consider it to be my house—is the same. If I had to sum it up in one word, I know exactly which I would pick: snobbish. The path to the door is, and I'm not joking, smooth and unblemished obsidian, running like a river of ink from the road. Beautiful? Sure, I guess. Pointless? Definitely. These are exactly the kind of things that make me uncomfortable in the lap of luxury, the lap that I've lived in my entire life.

If find myself there now, feet surely slipping out from underneath me were it not for years of practice. I'm clothed like a Muggle, only a rich one. I'm not sure if the pureblood community is aware of the similarity in their clothing. If they were, they'd likely claim that the Muggles stole the idea. I'm wearing a ridiculously stiff collar of black with gold patterns of the Zabini crest embroidered into it. The remainder of the crest—the fancy scrawl of the letter "Z"—is fashioned into my tie pin, the pin that sits uncomfortably against the emerald green of my school tie. My shoes, likewise, carry a definite resemblance to the crest, a choice made by my mother when she sent a servant to the train station to greet me.

The house looms threateningly before me, a deep pointed archway hiding the door from view like the entrance to a forbidden cave. The gleaming bricks of obsidian add to the menacing feel, flanked on all sides by dark wood, almost burnt in appearance. Tall, darkened windows peer at me, some of the curtains closed, but others deepening into darkness. Two angry-looking spires stare at me from either side of the building, and the entire thing is framed with ugly purplish roses that scream of poison and thousands of secrets that have been kept far too long. Along the inky path rest evenly spaced plum trees, the boughs heavily laden with rotting fruit.

I trudge onward, a bounce to my step that is definitely forced, but I'm not giving up on this game of power just yet. Even though the unusual silence surrounding the grounds is almost enough to stop me in my tracks I maintain my leisurely pace, trying to ignore the unease rising in my chest in the absence of the usual bustle of servants and house elves.

When I finally reach the front door, I very nearly attempt to peer through the purple and green stained-glass windows surrounding it, the manticore of the Zabini crest making the thing truly horrible to see. However, peering isn't exactly a display of confidence, so I push open the door and ignore the manticore-shaped knocker that I was technically supposed to use. Oh well, today is the day that tradition can die.

"Mother, I'm home!" I shout through the emptiness of the darkened hallways. I'm beginning to wonder what on earth is about to happen to me, but sometimes acting like you control the situation is a very important step to actually controlling the situation. I continue my theatrics from school because in this case they're very likely necessary.

"Mother?" This time I allow a bit of confusion into my voice. "If you wanted to meet me elsewhere, you could've simply told me. It isn't like I'm a difficult man to reach . . ."

"Man?" her soft voice permeates the room coldly, though I can't place where it's coming from. "You most certainly aren't a man, Blaise. You're still such a child, and so very naïve."

Suddenly, her fingertips come to rest directly against my shoulder, and I freeze, afraid of the heavy feeling that I remember from when Professor Moody preformed the Imperious Curse on me, the curse that he told me she'd likely used on me before.

"Lumos!" I cry out the moment I regain control of myself and reign in my terror.

"What, scared of your own mother?"

"No. Just concerned about what you'll do." I turn to face her, my eyes boring into her matching ones. People say that she's beautiful, but all I've ever seen is filth. Her eyes are the only thing that resemble me in the slightest, her hair a soft blond that falls to her knees in slight waves and her skin fair from lack of sunlight. She's dressed in a casual black gown, cut exactly to her figure, the only jewelry the gigantic diamond on her finger from her last wedding: number eleven, I believe.

"Now," I continue, "Can we please get to the point?"

"Oh my dear, dear boy . . . I never had the intention of doing anything else." Her voice reminds me of poison, probably helped along by her perfume, which reeks of artificial flowers that are supposedly the latest fashion. Shivers roll up my spine.

"Okay, okay so you've been keeping up with your how-to-be-creepy lessons. How . . . nice."

"Enough of your petty name-calling, Blaise _Zabini_." She emphasizes the last name, likely aware of how much I hate it. "I have other, more pressing matters at hand, so this needs to be brief. I'm assuming by now that you're aware of some of my more rare . . . talents?"

"You mean failing at marriage? I wouldn't exactly call it a talent . . ."

"—You know what I mean." She interrupts, giving me a glare that is so very hateful that for a moment I can't believe this woman is actually my mother.

"Fine, I know that you've used the Imperious Curse on me, if that's what you mean. I also have to assume that you've used the same Curse on your many husbands, or possibly the Killing Curse."

Mother smiles, a wicked glint to her deep brown eyes that I sincerely hope will never be found in mine. "Then you'll understand the deal you're about to make." She beckons to a darkened room to my right, where I can suddenly hear the quick breaths of struggle. I gulp, wondering what in Merlin's name I'm being dragged into.

Mother swiftly claps her hands, sending servants that I wasn't even aware of from their hiding spots to open the curtains and allow light into the space. There—tied to a chair and gagged—sits something that makes me suck in a quick breath and shake my head slightly in the desperate hope that I'm dreaming. I'm not. For there, very much real, sits none other than Ginny Weasley.

"What the hell are you doing with her here?" I demand, turning to guard the girl that has suddenly found herself under my protection, until a thought pops into my head and I remember the mark that my forearm bears and think of the consequences of doing things that could be labelled as pro-Dumbledore. I blink as slowly as I dare and then lower my wand from its position against my mother's throat. I turn instead to face Ginny, the girl who now appears to be terrified and somewhat angered.

I shake my head a bit, daring to hope that this girl will understand that I mean her no harm, but like Hermione when I pretended to hate her guts, I doubt that Ginny will get it.

Out loud, I speak in a different tone. "My apologies, mother. It simply startled me, that's all."

Mother smiles evilly, and I know that this likely won't end without a sacrifice of my morals in some form or another. "No apology necessary, _son_. I brought her here so that you could practice the skill for which I'm so well known. See, I heard a rumor that you and this . . . this thing . . . intended to marry one day."

I could slap myself.

"Of course, I knew instantly that such rumors couldn't possibly be true, but I might as well be sure. I thought that this could be the perfect opportunity for a little mother-son bonding. Don't you?"

I feel about as sick as I did the last time that I performed an Unforgivable, and I fight the urge to throw up. I can almost feel my sentence in Azkaban growing and the thought pushes some blackness into the edges of my vision. I nearly collapse onto the floor right then and there, but I remember what's at stake and it's plenty to keep me going.

"Mother, of course there is no reason to doubt my loyalty to you. I have never strayed from your word and have always kept up the good name Zabini. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps this could be a good bonding moment."

Mother looks pleased, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

"—But perhaps not. Dearest mother, you seem to have forgotten a thing or two. Number one, I've learned plenty of things that I didn't need any of your guidance for. And of course, I don't take orders from someone like yourself."

Mother gasps, and Ginny looks to be a mixture of surprised and relieved.

"Believe it or not, I take orders from very few people anymore." With that, I push up my left sleeve and reveal the Dark Mark, something that I doubt I'll ever be comfortable with doing. In the deafening silence that follows, I draw my wand and shout, "CRUCIO!" as loudly as the Howler that I got only days before yelled across the Great Hall. Mother instantly crashes to the floor and I seize my moment to unbind Ginny and apparate away from this ghastly place, the place that I silently swear never to enter again.

* * *

"GET OFF ME!" Ginny screeches as soon as the rushing in our ears stops. She's on her back, but she quickly scooches away on her hands and feet, trying desperately to escape.

I want to care—I really do—but it's like something inside of me is frozen, like something broke. All I can do is stare blankly off into space. Ginny slaps me in the face, but it only feels like a light pat. I can hear her continue to scream and claw and even bite me, but it's like I'm locked into some other world. Gradually her screaming stops and she instead shakes my shoulders violently, demanding me to do something: anything. Even that doesn't last terribly long, and—though I can't say that I have a firm grasp on time right now—she leans against a tree across from me and simply stares at me with tears in her eyes, waiting.

I'm not sure how long we sit there for, but when I waken from my stupor, the sun is setting. My entire body begins to shake and suddenly I can't resist the urge to shriek, so I let loose a scream that echoes through the forest where we find ourselves.

"Blaise," Ginny questions when I finally fall silent, apparently at least brave enough not to run. "Blaise Zabini?"

I suddenly realize that she's talking to me, and I try to focus despite the blurriness to everything around me. "Yeah . . . that's me." I forget sometimes that there are plenty of people who don't know me despite my ridiculous stunts and elaborate pranks from this year's attempts to cheer up Draco.

"What . . . what **was** all that?"

"Excuse me?" The blurriness wipes itself away, replaced by a curiosity about this girl, the girl sitting before me calmly after being rescued from her kidnapper by a Death Eater.

I take in a deep breath before answering, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. Yes, I'm a Death Eater, but no, it's not because I'm a power-crazy Muggle hater. I guess if everyone knew my true thoughts and feelings, they'd likely call me a blood traitor."

"You earnestly expect me to believe that?" Sarcasm drips from her voice in great globs, and she raises her eyebrow in a manner that is worthy of Slytherin itself.

"You earnestly expected me to turn on my mother and rescue you like that back there," I counter, raising my eyebrow in return.

"Hmm . . ." Ginny scrunches up her face, apparently stumped by that remark. She glares at me in a fashion that must've taken years of practice.

"That's it? No threat to tell Dumbledore, no demand to be told more? No attempt to convince me to turn myself in?"

"Well . . ." she nods to herself with a faint smile, ". . . I could. Normally, I would. But it's like you said. You saved me, and I didn't really expect it of you. You also went against your own flesh and blood and behaved in a manner that is very contrary to that of any Death Eater I've ever seen. So . . . I guess you could call us even." Her smile blossoms into a grin, and suddenly I dislike the Weasley family a little bit less.

"Okay, we're even. What do you propose we do now?"

"I propose that you apparate the both of us to Saint Mungos immediately. We'll bang ourselves up a bit and you'll lie and tell them that you were wandering through your mother's property when some snatchers showed up and apparated you to one of their holding facilities where you found me. We both fought for our lives and managed to get our wands before apparating away.

"Of course, neither of us should be able to apparate with another person, and I don't think I can do it at all. You'll have to purposefully splinch yourself somewhere that isn't immediately fatal to make it believable, but it can be done. They'll fix us up and then contact Hogwarts."

"Good, I see only two problems here."

Ginny rolls her eyes, "And those would be?"

"Wait . . ." I frown slightly, "You're not mad that I found an issue with your plan?"

She scoffs, "Obviously I'd rather my original plan suffice, but we kind of need to get out of here, so now isn't exactly the time. Now hurry up and tell me what's wrong with it!"

"Okay then. The problems are that I can't have the staff at Saint Mungo's observing my Dark Mark . . ." I shudder involuntarily at the words and take a deep breath to refrain from losing whatever I've eaten in the past few hours. The stupid thing has become a curse, really.

"—and secondly?" Ginny interjects, looking confused.

"I can't have the wrong sorts of people thinking I rescued you. As you seem to be aware, saving you was at great risk to myself. I know that you won't understand . . . but it's important that I remain discreetly in the Death Eater's ranks."

Ginny nods slowly, seeming to silently decide not to argue with me.

"And what should we do about it," she asks.

"Do you know any heating spells?"

"Yeah . . ." Ginny stares at me dumbly through the slits of her eyelids, "Why?"

"We were in the middle of being sold for our magic in a very public place, understand? That way I couldn't possibly have hurt you without blowing my cover."

Ginny nods, the cloud of confusion still gracing her features, "Okay but what about the heating spell?"

"You are going to burn the living daylights out of my . . ."

"—your Dark Mark."

"Yeah. That. Anyways, I think that the dark magic embedded in the mark itself should instantly turn it to scarring, something that the people of Saint Mungo's won't try to fix."

"But won't the pain make it impossible to properly apparate?"

"No, but the severing charm will."

"Zabini, you—"

"—It's Blaise. Not Zabini: Blaise."

"Okay but Blaise, you couldn't possibly mean to slice yourself open . . ."

"Well, only if you're capable of apparating the both of us to Saint Mungos."

"I already told you I can't . . . well . . . I could maybe do it, but it's quite likely that one of us will get splinched . . ."

"Do it on purpose, then. Splinch me. We already agreed that it should happen. Everyone who knows me knows that I would've fought tooth and nail to get away from those snatchers, so it has to be believable."

"What if you die?"

"Make sure Theodore Nott is aware of it."

"What?"

I let out a breath from my nose and blink very slowly. "You heard me. Tell Theodore Nott."

"Why him? Is he . . . is he a Death Eater, too!"

"No, nothing like that." I hate lying more and more as the days go by, but I doubt it can be avoided right now. "Calm down," I continue, "I just need you to do it. If I die, you have to tell Theodore as quickly as possible."

"What about your family?" Ginny's confused expression is washed away by one of concern, concern that I find I don't understand. Why do all of these people feel things because of my actions when I hardly know them? First Hermione, now Ginny . . . I don't get it.

"Well, I doubt my mother will be terribly upset and that is the entirety of my family. Just mother and I."

"Why don't you call her mum or something normal? Mother is so . . . distant. So formal."

"Exactly. Now we really must be going."

Ginny nods and seems to understand something that I wish she didn't. I wish that she still knew nothing of me or my mother. I wish no one ever had to know anything of my mother ever again. But some things can't be undone.

"Incendio," mutters Ginny and my whole body stiffens and then curls towards my left arm. I bite my lip as hard as I can to try and block out the pain, but it doesn't help in the least bit. I find myself screaming and begging Ginny to stop, but to her credit she doesn't, not until the entirety of my Dark Mark is covered in flaming red and blistering material. When she stops I continue to lie there, convulsing as the feeling of intense heat continues to crawls up my arm. I doubt highly that I would have done this if I realized how much it hurt.

Swiftly, Ginny levitates some water from somewhere I must've missed and dumps it onto my flesh. A strong hiss follows the motion and for a second, I feel like I might pass out from the pain. Next, Ginny begins to cast healing spells that I was unaware of, spells that gradually remove the pain. Soon, the angry red color fades to a faint pink and soon enough is light enough to almost believe that it's my skin, unblemished. It seems surreal to look at my left forearm without having to fight the urge to be sick.

"You . . ." I stammer, ". . . thank you."

"You are an idiot, Blaise Zabini. You said that the Dark Mark would heal itself! You probably would've died here in the forest if you'd tried that yourself! I almost had to burn you to the third degree just to get rid of the thing! Do you even realize what that would've done to you? You probably would never have felt a thing on that area for the rest of your life! You are **so **lucky that I know some things about healing!"

I bashfully stare at the suddenly incredibly interesting ground, my cheeks nearly as red as my burn was just moments ago.

"I . . ." I trail off, not entirely sure of what I should be saying.

"Yeah, I thought so. Sounds like this wasn't your first dumb move, wither. You had to have had some sort of aneurism to think that becoming a Death Eater was a good idea!"

"I—"

"—Don't think I haven't seen the way you almost barf when you look at the mark!"

I'm taken aback by this revelation, and suddenly a small flame of anger bursts inside me and I stand up on shaky legs and approach her, standing very close to her face and glaring at her through squinted eyelids.

"Look, I'm not an idiot! I screwed up with the burning thing back there, but don't you EVER think that I made an idiotic decision when I became a Death Eater! Don't you think that I would KNOW the consequences? Do you really think that I WANT to end up in Azkaban? I didn't do it because I'm some power-hungry maniac!"

It's Ginny's turn to blush, and she does so, her trademark red hair falling into her eyes as she ducks her head down. Several minutes pass, her occasionally stealing glances at me with her steely blue eyes and me beginning to prepare myself for the Severing Charm that I'm about to cast. Finally, I sit down, crossing my legs underneath me. I rip out the tie pin from my clothing, tossing the golden "Z" as far as I can manage. Then I turn towards Ginny and stare at her, my hand running through my dark curls as I wait.

Finally, Ginny sighs and scooches from her spot to sit next to me, pulling her legs underneath herself as I did moments ago. "Then . . ." she speaks hesitantly, as though expecting me to explode at her next words, "Then why _did _you become a Death Eater?"

"It's a long story, Ginny."

Ginny glances up to the sky, "It's getting dark now. I think we should wait it out here tonight, and we shouldn't sleep. Sleep deprivation will help our cover story along."

"I agree, but I wasn't going to sleep anyway."

"Don't trust me?"

"Insomnia, chronic. Runs in the family I'm told. My health can't be that great if I've been under the Imperious Curse I don't know how many times, anyway."

"Oh. Isn't it somehow 'against the Slytherin code' to tell people about your weaknesses?"

"Well, I'll make an exception for the girl who just suffered because I'm an idiot and my mother sucks."

"So . . ." Ginny fills the awkward silence, "we have all night. There's plenty of time for a long story about your decision to become a Death Eater . . ."

"Another time, Ginny, perhaps. I deal in secrets that I can't burden you with, secrets that aren't worth it to know." Suddenly, I break out into an amused smile, thinking about the irony of what I'm about to promise her. "Tell you what, you come find me in one year's time and I'll tell you everything, I promise on my honor, which is worth a lot more than my mother's life." Though my honor is good, the promise is rather worthless, really, because it won't matter by then, but it's the best I can do.

"Won't we both still be in Hogwarts?"

"I'm a Death Eater, Ginny. Death Eater. I can't make any promises."

"Alright then, I guess I'll have to take what I can get." I can feel it more than I can see it, but I'm pretty sure she's staring at me.

"What is it now?"

"It's just . . . you know I still don't like you very much."

"Well, I'm not exactly a fan of the Weasley family either."

"You're not exactly doing a great job of selling yourself, you know. First your mother kidnaps me, then you show up and admit that abuse is pretty much a thing in your family by acknowledging that she's held you under the Imperious and does it quite a lot. Next, you cast the Crucio Curse at your own mother, and then show me that you're a Death Eater. You come up with this brilliant plan to cover **your** identity that involves the both of us getting hurt, a plan that might not work, by the way, if they use Veritaserum. Finally, you almost turn me into a murderer, and won't even bother to explain why you've made the decision to become a Death Eater in the first place."

"Wow, you're right. I'm a jerk!" I light the end of my wand with a quick Lumos and then smirk at her in a way that would probably make the Malfoy family jealous. "Better idea, though. Let's leave for Saint Mungo's now." I flick my wand and mutter "Diffindo" towards my shin, repeating the incantation at my chest, arm, and face. I feel the blood begin to trickly into my eye and I quickly jab the wand a few inches away from it, causing my face to swell up like a mosquito bite the size of a Bludger.

I hear a sharp intake of breath beside me, but Ginny quickly follows suite, only she just slices her shoulder so that she can focus on apparating. Then she reaches for me in the darkness and with a pop, we apparate to the hospital.

With a swishing noise, I can feel a chunk of the side of my hand falling away from us as we swirl through the apparation process. I suck in sharply from the eruption of pain, but I can't afford to black out right now.

"Help!" Ginny yells, "Somebody help us!"

Now in the main lobby of Saint Mungo's, all eyes are on us, gasping and clapping their hands to their hearts at the sight, mostly me. I can just barely see, but I lift my hand curiously to examine the damage that's been done. I can see the bone at the side of it through the thick stream of blood that dumps onto the floor. I hate the sight of blood in large quantities and this time it's enough to send me into a world of darkness.


	7. A Well-Deserved Hatred

**Chapter Seven: ****_A Well-Deserved Hatred_**

I walk through the halls to the chorus of my own breathing and occasionally—if I'm very, very lucky—the faint whisper of some confused student. I thought I was used to silence, but not like this. Ever since I was released from Saint Mungo's it's been the same. The rumors about what really happened at my mother's house are all that anyone can talk about, only stopping when either Ginny or I walk past.

Some people think that I really meant all of those things I jokingly 'confessed' to Harry Potter, my love for him so strong that I would even save his girlfriend. Some people think that my mother was the one that tortured both Ginny and I: the poor star-crossed lovers. Some people think that I'm evil and tortured Ginny myself, placing a memory charm on her so that she wouldn't remember.

Very few people believe what I've told them despite Ginny confirming the story every chance she gets. The story is exactly what we agreed upon, which is that I truly had stumbled upon her with too many witnesses not to save. The only people who believe it are as follows: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley. They only believe it because of the loyalty of friendship.

I sit down to the Great Hall for my meal and the treatment I get is much the same. No one bothers me anymore. I find that it's actually easier this way—the way that it used to be—and I know that I should hate it, but instead I just feel absolutely nothing. I should hate being alone, but more than anything I know that I should hate what happened. I should hate my mother and that she was so very ruthless in the way she handled the confrontation, no angles, no casual comments for me to decipher, just kidnapping a random girl from my school and then expecting me to deliver. Except Ginny wasn't random, not really. What she said about her, it was true. I **had **said that I was going to marry her, and even though I didn't mean it, it leaves me with this vague sense of responsibility for it all.

I've begun to realize lately realize that I've been responsible for so many things that have happened to me, and it should hurt. I wasn't enough for my parents, and it was _me _who wasn't enough, not them. When I think about it, I can think the words 'it hurts', but I don't feel them. The whole world is on some sort of stand-by, just blah that can't be changed. Every day I wish more and more that I felt something, anything.

I find myself crawling through emptiness for the thousandth time now, curled in a fat floral recliner in the Room of Requirements while I should be in class Transfiguring a cat into a lamppost or whatever useless nonsense I'm supposed to be learning. I've been missing more and more classes lately. I might be expelled if I don't pick up the slack soon, but I'm a little beyond caring at the moment.

Whenever I close my eyes, she's there, her and her menacing eyes. She's hurt me so many times, it should hurt that she would do yet another thing to me. Even though I knew she hated me, knew that she probably never loved me . . . the Imperious Curse? I have never in my life _wanted _to put someone through one of the Unforgivables, but here she had been putting me through them, unwittingly, my entire life? So why doesn't it hurt? Why am I not screaming and crying or doing something . . . anything?

Suddenly I stand up and, without even giving it a second thought, thrust a vase against the wall, wanting to feel satisfaction as it shatters to hardly more than dust. I pick up another one and throw it against the fireplace, watching as the dust and the fire collide. I reach my hand underneath the base of the chair I was just sitting in and flip it. Pulling my wand out, I shout at the top of my lungs and watch as the chair bursts into flames, the smoky burn in my lungs hardly noticeable. Next I pull a charring log out of the fireplace and bash in the chandelier that Theo made, the chandelier that is inexplicably in the room every single time I enter it. I now shout out spells and utterly destroy basically everything else the room has to offer: another chair, a few stone sculptures, several bookshelves, and a mirror.

"Wow."

I jerk my head sharply towards the voice that undeniably belongs to Theo Nott. He raises his hands and claps slowly, strolling through the destruction I've just caused as though it were a scenic park.

"Augustus," he begins, never shirking in his resolve to call me that, "While I must say that you look a treat, tell me. Does this," he motions to the mess surrounding me, "Make you feel any better?"

Usually I would argue, but I'm too tired for this right now. "No," I sigh, sinking to the floor and resting my face in my hands.

"I didn't think so." Then, to my utter surprise, he walks over and sits down next to me, resting his hand lightly on my shoulder.

I blink at him, but I'm not given the time to comment.

"You know, I think it was noble of you to stand up to her like that." He says this plainly, making no attempt at the usual Slytherin beat-around-the-bush type of compliments. It sounds good when he says it, too, because it almost makes it sound normal, like I'd just helped an old lady across the street or something.

I shake my head numbly, trying to shake myself to feel the thing that seems nearest to the surface, the feeling that I somehow screwed up, that somehow it's my fault that my mother hates me. We sit there in silence for a while, Theo just watching me silently. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak again.

"I got Ginny to tell me what happened." He admits this without that usual smooth quality to his tone. It makes me know that he's being realistic. "You can't forget forever."

"Doesn't matter . . ." My voice falls flat, but Theo seems to understand. His eyes flash and he jumps up, suddenly screaming at me.

"YOU'RE PATHETIC!"

The fact that he's screaming barely pings against the steel wall that seems to be holding every emotion in place somewhere far from where I could even begin to feel them.

"DID YOU HEAR ME, **ZABINI**? YOU'RE SUCH A COWARD THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN DEAL WITH YOUR OWN LAST NAME!"

"Yeah," I admit softly, "I know."

"YOUR OWN MOTHER DESPISES YOU! SHE HATES YOU AND YOU **DESERVE** IT!"

"Yeah. I know." This time I say the words more strongly, but still without any of the emotional tint that I wish could be there.

"YOU FAILED HER AND YOU'RE PROBABLY GOING TO FAIL TO SAVE MALFOY, TOO!"

"Yeah. I know."

Theo smirks evilly, and I'm starting to wonder if he's really my friend at all. "YOU'RE SELFISH, **ZABINI**! YOU ALWAYS HAVE BEEN AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE! YOU'RE USING HERMIONE AND YOUR ABOUT TO USE DRACO TO GET WHAT **YOU** WANT! THIS HAS **ALWAYS **BEEN ABOUT YOU! YOU DON'T ACTUALLY CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO ANYONE ELSE!"

The words ring in my ear. "_You don't actually care_".

Suddenly, I jerk upright and place my face centimeters from his, "YES!" I shriek, "YES, I **AM** A COWARD! I **AM** SELFISH! I **AM** AFRAID OF MY OWN LAST NAME!** AND IT'S ALL MY FAULT!** **EVERYTHING** IS MY FAULT! MY MOTHER **HATES** ME AND I DESERVE IT!" Then I crash to my knees and that's when the tears come, hot and numerous. I curl into myself and wail. It's an ugly sound, but I know that it's mine. The numbness rushes away and instead I feel a deep and all-consuming pain. I can't believe that I'm allowing Theo to see me like this, but it's not like I can stop once I've started.

He doesn't say anything more, just watches me silently as I scream and wail like a toddler. I cry until I'm out of tears to cry, leaving this muddled feeling of pain, hurt, and betrayal. Now I'm forced to content myself with the occasional sniff and the puffy feeling around my eyes.

Theo mummers something quietly, and I look up at him to catch it. He looks . . . like he understands somehow. "It's not you fault, by the way."

"I think I know that somewhere," I admit hoarsely, "but right now it doesn't feel that way."

"I know."

I stare into Theo's eyes, a tiny beacon of light after what feels now like an eternity of darkness. I blink slowly, not fully understanding what he means when he says he knows. How could anyone possibly _know_?

Theo takes a deep breath and continues, "I blamed myself for my mother's death, for my father's drunken state. For surely, if I'd at least tried to help him through life without mother . . ." he trails off, his eyes staring forwards but his mind clearly far away.

Then he interjected his own thoughts, mumbling words that I manage to hear perfectly. "But he didn't care regardless." Theo shakes his head momentarily, then turns to face me directly.

"I had to understand something, something that was hard to accept. You can't take responsibility for the rest of the world. In the end, **you** are all you can control. The mistakes you make, the good choices: the ugly and the beautiful. That's it. I couldn't earn the love of a father who never wanted me and you can't earn your mother's love now. Blaise, you shouldn't have to earn your parent's love. If they don't love you simply for being their child, maybe their love isn't worth anything, anyway."

"But Theo, she put me under the Imperious! She said she's done it before, too!" My voice is strained, and I can hear the pain extending into it.

"What?" Theo breathes the word, eyes wide.

"Theo, I was right! She _did_ put me under it! I . . . I've felt it before, now that I think about it. It's the same heavy feeling that I got that time Moody put me under it. I think . . . I think she does it a lot."

"You're not going back there." Theo nods seriously, "Don't go back there, Blaise."

"Believe me when I tell you that I don't intend to."

* * *

"If they ever let me out of Azkaban, I want to be given a redo." I sigh and flop to the floor, finding that I rather enjoy theatrics now that I've gotten used the them.

Hermione smacks me lightly, the braid she was working on falling out of my hair. I can feel her sighing quietly, but we've already agreed that she won't be treating me like a martyr anymore, so I don't mention it.

"Why don't you just fix this year's problems and get the grades you want?"

Oh Hermione. Always so sensible . . . "Yes, because it wouldn't look even slightly suspicious for me to march up to Dumbledore, explain why I've been shirking my grades, ask for an extension or extra credit or something, and then proceed to be a real competitor for the top grades. Besides! I have way too much to do. I've been thinking that I might want to practice wandless magic for my upcoming vacation."

Hermione's fingers freeze in my hair, the Room of Requirement—where I've been spending most of my time—deadly quiet through the many floors and sturdy walls that separate us from the other students, the majority of which are probably outside enjoying one of the last warm Saturdays of the year as October draws to a close.

"I thought you weren't going back there," she finally says, probably trying to sound relaxed. I can hear—and feel—the slight shake to her voice that gives her away, however.

"I'm not. I meant Azkaban." She was referring to my house (okay fine, my mansion). I had to tell her the truth about that, of course, after Theo already found everything out from Ginny herself. While Theo's a Slytherin and used to finding his own way, Hermione likely wouldn't take it well if she hadn't heard it directly from me. I explained everything except what my mother had said to me and how she'd wanted me to use the Imperious Curse. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that.

"Oh." Her voice is dark, and she pulls her fingers out of my hair entirely, the unfinished braided top flopping into my face.

"Cheer up, love, I—"

"—Love?"

"Oh," I blush furiously as I realize my mistake, "It's just . . . I didn't mean anything by it, it's just something I've picked up over the years . . ." That's partially true. I picked it up from my father, actually, and the memory leaves me with a slice of pain, like an old wound reopening.

"What?" Hermione looks concerned again.

"It's nothing, really. I won't say it again."

Hermione nods, likely sensing that there's something else to this but wisely having the good sense not to dig into it too much. "Anyway, you were saying that you wanted to practice wandless magic. You may as well spend you time otherwise. I've tried it, and it's impossible."

I laugh. "So, the Great Hermione Granger cannot do something and it therefore must be impossible!"

"No! I—"

"—Just can't stand not being able to master something, to understand it."

Hermione shakes her head slightly, "You've got me, but I have to go study for a Potions exam next week. Have you studied at all?"

"Pfft! No. If I'm going to fail, it's going to be a show that throws Fred and George's exit from Hogwarts in the dust!" I wink, trying for a smirk, but finding it hard. Though I may have cried over my mother's betrayal, I still can't manage to push it from my mind.

Hermione seems to notice this, smiling sadly as she leaves. I know that she wants to help, but there isn't anything she can do.

* * *

I spit forcefully onto one of Hogwarts many inexplicable trophies, scrunching my nose in disgust. I should've showed up to more classes, but like an idiot I kept ignoring them. After failing the Potions exam—and a whole host of others—I am now finishing my first week of detention, which will continue on every night for the next three weeks on a rotation with every Professor whose class I've missed, which means all of them.

"Mr. Zabini, I must say that I am very surprised that you would consider skipping one of my classes. I know how much you would enjoy Potion Making, I've enjoyed it myself for many years now." Slughorn is currently breathing down my neck, literally. On the bright side, detention has been keeping my mind off of things, but now I think that the Professors must be having a contest to see who can make me most miserable, because this is getting ridiculous.

On Monday night, I sat in the kitchens with Flitwick, chopping onions beside the house elves. Flitwick insisted that I dress "appropriately" and handed me an empty flour sack with armholes, gesturing to the bathrooms for me to change. Of course, it was just my luck and as I exited the bathroom, I ran into Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter, and Hermione, all of whom found my getup entertaining to say the least. The house elves didn't even seem to care that I was dressed according to elf culture and continuously gave me confused stares. Worst of all, when I make the mistake of dropping a few chunks of onion on the floor, Flitwick insisted with a smile that I continue to follow elf culture and handed me a bucket of water, which I was forced to dump onto myself. Much to Draco's amusement, I returned that evening soaking wet and wearing a flour sack, hair plastered to my face and smelling of onions.

On Tuesday night, I was dragged to the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid on a hunt to collect some of the rarer ingredients found in wolfsbane potion. It was going fine and I was actually quite relieved that it wasn't as bad as Monday except that Hagrid seemed to have forgotten me. I yelled for hours, completely lost, until I finally gave up and decided to spend the night. How was I supposed to know that there was some vast lake of what I can only describe as glue deep in the forest? I tripped over a log and landed face-first in the stuff, struggling for hours before I finally managed to reach my wand from my pocket and blasted the stuff away. By the time I returned to the castle, I was covered in glue and more than ready to go to bed, but to my great dismay I realized that it was already early Wednesday morning. I showed up in the Slytherin Common Room with my hair sticking up everywhere and my robes plastered against my body, forcing me to waddle rather than walk. Everyone—and I mean everyone—saw me.

On Wednesday night, it was time to face my doom with Professor Snape. He simply handed me a quill and gave me a lengthy document to copy, telling me that I couldn't fall asleep. He had to have known that I was up all night, because by the time I finished, it was once again the morning of the next day. I did end up falling asleep and—again much to my dismay—found that I had ink smeared across my face, ink that strangely couldn't be removed with magic. I had to leave it on the entire day before it finally wore off. Needless to say, the general student population saw an ink-covered Blaise.

Tonight, I'm scrubbing trophies, which makes me suspicious to say the least. I've been trying to get my revenge, at least, by cleaning as many as possible with my spit, but it's so childish that I hardly feel better.

"Mr. Zabini, did you hear me?"

"Hmm . . ." I flick open my eyes, groaning as the light hits them, even though it's only dim candlelight.

"Mr. Zabini?"

". . . It's Blaise . . ." I mumble, mostly to myself, as I lean my head against the most recently polished trophy.

Professor Slughorn chuckles lightly, but then takes a step back. "I was considering how best to punish you, but I imagine that you've learned your lesson, young man. You may go to bed now."

I should thank him, but all I can think of is my bed, so instead I begin to inch my way to it. My legs weigh a ton and the bags under my eyes droop quite low. My progress is slow.

"Oh, and Mr. Zabini?" Slughorn calls, "I do hope you'll accept my invitation to my Christmas Ball, which I'll be holding in two months' time."

I should be asking him why he's inviting me right now, or why he's asking me at all, but I don't. I simply mumble, "Yeah. I'll be there." Then I head off to my bed, falling asleep as soon as I collapse into it.

**Stay tuned for updates soon (ish). I have the next chapter finished, and it's an important one to the story, so hopefully I do a reasonable job writing it. Please write me a review if you can, I would love to hear from you. Thanks!  
**


	8. Hollow Realities

**As promised, here is the next chapter. Happy Reading!**

**Chapter Eight: ****_Hollow Realities _**

It's three months into the school year, the wind wailing almost constantly as though mourning the last days of November. The wind isn't the only thing mourning, however. It's almost two in the morning and—thanks to how light a sleeper I am—I wake to the rustle of bedsheets and a very soft creak of the floor, so light that I could almost blame it on the wind.

That's when a flash of lightning hits the artificial window of the room and reveals the movement of an almost-white haired boy. He's dressed in a large black cloak and seems to be bracing himself to enter the fierceness that is the storm. I keep my eyes mostly shut and moan softly in mock sleep, causing him to look over at me. I need to see his eyes so that I can pinpoint his intent. Catching them in another convenient flash of light, I see mostly determination—a stubbornness that Malfoy's aren't lacking in—but behind that I see just a tiny hint of fear. That's all I needed to see and all I get to see before he rushes away from the beds and out the door. Not bothering to even put on slippers, I jump out of bed and bolt down the halls.

Gaining the head start that I needed, I see Draco walking towards me, moving as though a mere shadow on the wall. When he passes the dark corridor I'm standing in, I reach out and grasp his wrist, whisking him into the hallway with me before pulling out my wand.

"Lumos," I mutter, revealing a stunned-looking Draco. "What, never seen a wand before?" His expression loosens when he recognizes my voice, but he still seems quite tense. "Draco," I say quickly, seizing my moment, "I know what you're about to do and it's not worth it."

"What do you mean not worth it?" he hisses, ever a good tribute to our House's founder.

"I mean it's not worth it." I quickly pull up my left sleeve and reveal the ugly snake twisting around a haunting skull. Like Theo suspected, the mark can't really be removed. Mine is once again in perfect condition, despite the fact that Ginny burned it for me.

We both gasp in response, him from surprise and me because I have been purposefully trying to forget its existence just as I've been trying to forget my looming and doomful future. Draco then shakes his head in response, probably not daring to try using words, or possibly conveying some kind of meaning, some kind of motive that makes getting a mark to match permissible.

"I'm going to be late," he finally says, pulling away from my grasp before heading down the hall. I hear the patter of his feet growing more and more faint. He never looks back. I want to run after him, but something tells me not to, so I remain where I am.

"I'm sorry Draco . . ." I mutter, head hung. I'm not surprised that he's doing this, and I'm not confused about his motives. I'm just sad because I feel as though I'm losing a friend. Sure, he's a jerk to almost everyone and sure, he thinks that he's better than the entire population, but he's still my best friend. I guess I just have to hope that my plan—however risky—doesn't fail.

I'm tired and I don't want to be caught in the halls after curfew, especially not by an entitled prefect, so I head back to my bed. My feet feel like lead and each step I take is a fight. When I finally make it, I bury myself deep into the covers and have a good cry, allowing the sobs that Slytherins supposedly never experience to control me. I pull my arms around myself, urging my body to calm down, but it won't hear it. I swear I can feel my Dark Mark right now searing painfully, as though Voldemort's creating it all over again. This makes me cry harder.

I imagine that my mother would be less than proud of me if she could see me now, but then I wonder why I'm wondering it at all when it hits me: I'm alone in this world. I'm truly alone. If I were to die tonight, the students of my House wouldn't even stop to pay respects. Mother would take care of the arrangements via owl, not even bothering to take one last look at me. I matter so little that the rest of the Houses wouldn't even find it necessary to jeer.

I know I won't sleep any more this night, so I leave my bed and sit idly in one of the chairs by the fire in the common room, willing this ache to go away. The fire crackles and I think of all the death and destruction that will come this next year. I think of burning heaps of corpses, the bloodshed never stopping. Suddenly I think of failure and Dumbledore actually dying, Draco actually murdering him, myself receiving the kiss. I see myself stumbling around in the darkness of Azkaban, foam splattering everywhere as I shake my head with a stupid smile plastered on my face. I see the horrible snake that comes from nowhere and yet hovers menacingly and swirls around a skull.

I jerk from the chair and barely stifle a scream before running as fast as my legs can carry me to the Astronomy tower and fresh air. I need to breath and I need to do it now. Bursting through the door, I rush to a window and thrust my head out of it, trying to drown my thoughts by forcing the freezing air into my lungs.

"Blaise?" I hear a soothing voice behind me. As I jerk my head around, I spot Dumbledore sitting in a chair behind me and looking out his own window, though not as desperately as I am. I expect him to scold me, but instead he conjures a chair beside him, motioning for me to sit. I scold myself for how much I want to run into his arms and cry into a friendly shoulder, even the shoulder of a man I don't really know, a man I'm not sure I respect. Instead, I sit down slowly and close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. Feeling his gaze, I look over to meet his eyes.

"The world is heavy isn't it, Blaise," he simply states before closing his own eyes. I wonder if he knows how much I loathe being called Mr. Zabini. Either way, the use of my first name causes a small tear to roll involuntarily down my cheek. It's that cursed moment that Dumbledore opens his eyes and points them at the droplet that glints as another lightning bolt marks the sky. I nod, acknowledging his statement about the world.

"I'm proud of you, Blaise." I'm stunned beyond recognition. What is he on about? How can he be proud of me? What does he know? He could ruin everything simply by knowing too much! He seems to notice that I've tensed up, and he sets a wrinkled palm onto my shoulder. "You are proof to me—proof to the rest of the world—that Slytherin is still a noble House." I barely suppress a shudder. He doesn't know, then. He doesn't know that I bear the mark of the Dark Lord.

"I'm not noble." I say in barely more than a whisper, but those words need to be said.

"I believe that you are, Blaise." Then he stands and leaves, patting me on the back for a second before adding, "You needn't worry about classes, I will leave your homework here." Then he disappears, leaving me to wonder what he knows and what he's going to do with it. I simply sit and stare at the stormy sky, unable to move from my spot. That is how I remain until dawn, when I wander down to the Great Hall and sit, basking in its emptiness. I quietly pull out my first completed Draught of Peace and down it, hoping for some relief from myself.

Breakfast passes almost unremarkably, aside from a few hesitant glances in my direction by the few who notice the drowsy look on my face. I knew almost instantly that I'd done something wrong to my Draught of Peace, because I'm not feeling calm . . . actually I'm not feeling at all. I rather blubber up the many flights of stairs and manage to mutter at the Room of Requirement and get myself through the door before I collapse in an unmoving heap. I kind of wonder how long I'll be stuck like this, but in a few moments, I no longer have to worry because the potion knocks me out cold. The last thought I remember is as follows: _At least I'll be getting some sleep_.

When I wake up, I quickly read the clock and mutter a few curses when I notice that it is only a few hours until dinner and I haven't even touched the stack of homework Dumbledore promised would be waiting for me. But I decide that I'm not going to be doing it right now. Still, I need a distraction from my thoughts. Instead of doing the homework, I get up and make my way into my chambers, scrambling for the objects I'm looking for before rushing back into the Room of Requirement. There I begin practicing the wandless magic I told myself I'd master before I go to Azkaban.

I begin by closing my eyes and trying to focus on only one thing: light. I think about every aspect of it, from sunlight to the light that is goodness. Then I begin to try expelling other thoughts from my mind, first easy thoughts to remove such as my homework, the upcoming Christmas holidays, and the fact that my Draught of Peace failed. Then I work on thoughts that put up a bit of a fight, such as my Dark Mark and my upcoming time in Azkaban, the thought of which always causes me to break a sweat. Finally, I force out the thoughts that are nearly impossible to overcome, such as Draco's Dark Mark, Voldemort himself, and what will happen if I fail. With great trouble, I manage to clear it all away. After every thought has left my mind except for light, I open my eyes and call out "Lumos!" Almost instantly there is a faint light floating a few feet from my outstretched hand.

"Wow . . ." I hear a voice gasp behind me. I turn to see Hermione, her mouth gaping open at the now-vanished light. "I-I've heard of wandless magic, but I never actually thought it was possible."

"Still think I'm stupid?" I smirk, raising an eyebrow in mockery. Of course, she hasn't thought me stupid in quite a while, but it feels good to tease someone, knowing they won't take it seriously. I assume that by tonight Draco will have distanced me. He will never tell the Dark Lord of my treachery, we've been too close for too long, but he won't tempt fate. He doesn't want to have to kill me and he doesn't want me to know that he's supposed to kill Dumbledore.

"Yeah," Hermione responds to my question, "as stupid as that smirk you Slytherins always feel the need to wear. That and the eyebrow raise. What's with the eyebrow raise?" I force a laugh and she joins me with her real laugh, though I know that she's probably dying to know the answer.

"It's a mask, Hermione." I smile genuinely, thinking of how glad I am to not have lost everyone and hoping this satisfies her almost never-ending curiosity. She laughs and pushes me playfully.

"No, tell me the truth," she begs, the playful glint still in her eyes, but I know she really wants to know.

"No, really, it's all a mask, a charade, a big show. You just have to be able to see past it to see the real person underneath. Now, don't get me wrong though, the mask is still part of the person, but it doesn't usually tell the real story. However, I could try living without raising an eyebrow for months and probably never break myself of it."

"What's up with the clothes?" She asks this after a quick nod to demonstrate that she believes me. It's a fair question, the clothes, because I'm not in school uniform. I'm wearing a suit—a grey one—that would probably take a family like the Weasleys a month to afford. The suit is a soft fabric that moves with me perfectly and doesn't easily wrinkle. I'm not going to wear the jacket, though, as I always feel stifled in them like I'm some kind of mummy. Instead I wear a grey vest over a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show my Dark Mark. I wear a tie around my neck, but it's tied loosely as though I've been wearing it all day and am ready to take it off. The tie is the classic shade of Slytherin green, the pop to the piece, and I have on simple black dress shoes. In my left ear, I wear a single gold earring with a tiny diamond stud.

"Oh, these old things?" A smirk creeps into my expression. She cocks her head and raises both her eyebrows, though I suspect she's trying only to raise one. I continue, "This is my statement, my final statement. When I turn myself in to the Ministry, there will be loads of pictures. I don't want my public image to be this terrifying Death Eater who takes out scores of ministry workers before finally being captured, but I also don't want to pretend I'm not a Death Eater. So, I figure this . . ." I gesture to my clothes, "will give them something to talk about."

Hermione nods rather seriously but her face lights up a second later as an idea seems to pop into her head. "Blaise . . ." she starts slyly, "That will be a statement, but I can think of something that would be more of a statement."

"What," I question, "I'm not wearing a clown wig, and I'm not shaving my eyebrows off." She laughs again before snatching up a shred of paper from her backpack that she tossed on the floor and transfiguring it into a shiny metallic ring.

"If you wear this . . . " she grabs my left hand and glides the ring onto my fourth finger, "People won't just be wondering why the Death Eater seems so collected, they'll also be wondering if he's engaged or married, which will lead to the gossip about who you're engaged or married to."

"Now you're thinking like a Slytherin!" I smirk again and shove the ring into my breast pocket. "I'll do it." For the first time in months, it feels good to smile. I almost frown when I think about the fact that I'm going to be linking her mind to the mind of her most hated enemy tomorrow afternoon, but I push the thought away for now.

"Now show me how you do that wandless magic!" Hermione makes puppy eyes at me and I roll my eyes before explaining what I did before.

". . . but it was only light, Hermione. A simple Lumos. It's not like I could produce, say, a Patronus without my wand."

"What is your Patronus, anyway," she asks quietly. I can tell she thinks this is a risk because she backs a few steps away from me and places both hands on her hips, as though hoping to look fierce. "You never joined us and Dumbledore's army."

"No, I guess I didn't."

"Well?"

"Ah yes, my Patronus. Well, if I'm being honest, I've never bothered to rightly try conjuring one. The perks of being in the middle." Hermione simply stares at me, neither breaking eye contact nor uttering a sound for five straight minutes.

"Fine!" I shout, admitting defeat. "Expecto Patronum!" I try without my wand, hoping that it doesn't completely fizzle at my fingertips. Nothing. Hermione opens her mouth to scoff, but I hold up a finger. Then I close my eyes and try to think only of happy thoughts, searching for the most powerful happy memory I can come up with. The moment comes from when I was six years old, before my father left us.

I was standing in my room crying because I had just preformed my first accidental magic, a bout of Incendio that killed a squirrel. My father rushed in the room and wrapped me in a warm hug before telling me that it was okay, that I had just used my first magic. Then we went out and got ice cream. Looking back on it, I figure that he was only excited because he took the death of the squirrel to mean that I had the propensity for the Dark Arts, but I try to ignore that fact and instead focus on the happiness that I felt.

Fixing my mind on that memory, I again cast aside all other thoughts. Then I open my eyes and shout (I've heard shouting helps this spell along nicely), "Expecto Patronum!" This time it works, and a trail of blue light circles my body before turning to an incredibly clear image of an Elephant charging with its trunk flailing wildly.

Hermione hops up and down and screams in excitement. "You did it, Blaise!" I can't help but smile. "You did it, and you said you couldn't! You did it and you did it so well, so clearly!" She stops hopping and looks at me imploringly. "You did it so quickly . . ." she says slowly, "That means . . . I have to admit, Blaise Zabini. I may have finally met my match. Anyway, I have to get back to Harry and Ron, we're supposed to meet up and study. Bye!" The last part of her sentence is rushed, but then she turns and rushes out the door without looking back and I figure that she's probably embarrassed to admit something like that. Eventually I follow her and leave the room, hunger forcing me from this my safe haven.

* * *

I walk into the Great Hall slowly, as though someing is forcing my feet down. I don't want to meet the person that I am almost certain is here. Though he may never want to be my friend anymore, Draco will have to ensure that I keep my mouth shut, and that means setting up a meeting.

"Zabini." A low and almost forced voice acknowledges me as I slid into a seat at Slytherin table and begin to shove food onto my plate.

I stop for a brief moment and look over at the voice's owner before giving a tense nod. "Malfoy." We haven't greeted each other by last name in a long time or possibly ever. He knows that my last name plagues me, and I know that his last name bears a terrible reminder of his father. I wonder for a brief moment whether or not it would be possible to change names or maybe to take on my future spouse's name rather than vice versa, but now's not the time for such thoughts. Draco shakes his head at me, and I figure he knows what I'm thinking about as I've brought it up countless times in the past, a surefire way to get his mind off Lucius. Then I catch his eye and we hold each other's gazes for a few seconds before we both close our eyes in a slow blink. This is how I know that our friendship is over, because if we were truly friends one of us would have laughed and slapped the other on the back by now, or at least thrown a half-hearted insult.

I sigh inwardly. I knew that there was a good chance that this was going to happen, but I couldn't . . . I had to try; I couldn't give up on him. I wonder how on earth he's going to cope without me. How on earth do you come to grips with becoming Dumbledore's murderer with a friend to lean on, let alone on your own. _I sure hope you warm up to Hermione quickly_ . . . I think to myself, turning away from Draco. Though we sit side by side, we couldn't be further apart.

It's now that I notice the deep silence that surrounds me. Every single person in the great hall is staring at us, noticing that we've ended a friendship, a friendship that had lasted twelve years. Suddenly I feel the urge to leave, to get out, to escape and potentially take up permanent residence in the Room of Requirement . . . but I can't. I must stay strong and I must hold up the front that I've recently built. _You don't need him_. I tell myself, though I'm aware that I'm lying, and I hate lies. _You don't need him for this, you can save him without him_. This is a more realistic statement, a statement that I can cling onto, a statement that will probably become my coping method for a long time.

I notice now that there's another choice being made before my eyes. Though Crabbe and Goyle look at their food stupidly, I can see Pansy looking out of the corner of her eye. She's debating, I've seen this look before. Will they side with me or Draco? But I already know the answer, and the whole school does after a few seconds as well. Pansy stands up and walks over to me, a very unrealistic smile plastered onto her face. Then her hand flies backwards and then forward, landing directly on face, the sting causing me to jerk away for a second. Pansy saunters over to Draco, forcing her focus anywhere but on me. She's going to pretend I don't exist, then. It's fine. I tell myself it's fine. It must be fine. But I can tell by the way her feet don't entirely commit to walking that this isn't a decision Pansy wanted to make. So, I decide right then and there to forgive her and I instead point all my anger at the Dark Lord for making this world so awful and forcing someone to save it. I'm also mad at myself for deciding that I had to be the bloke that fixes the world, that stops my former best friend from committing murder.

Now I really can't take it anymore and I step away from my spot, my stomach growling for the food I'm not going to eat. I don't want it to look like I'm running, however, so I allow my gaze to circle the room, resting my eyes on every single student for a moment before turning and walking out, a large knot in my stomach, a thick-feeling glob in my throat, and a five-fingered welt on my face.

**I know, this chapter is kinda a bummer. Oh well. But what's not a bummer is that the school year is now officially over so . . . yay! Congratulations Class of 2020:)**


	9. Withdraw

**Hey guys, sorry it's been awhile, but I'm really trying to do my best work for every chapter, so you'll have to bear with me. Happy reading!**

**Chapter Nine: ****_Withdraw_**

My eyes are barely open, and I can feel the bags underneath them when I begin to shake my head furiously, trying to wake up a bit.

"Mr. Zabini?" Professor Flitwick calls from the front of the room, "Do you have an issue with sympathy charms?"

I gulp, regretting shaking my head so hard but slightly relieved of the struggle to keep myself functioning.

"Yes sir," I reply in a Slytherin sneer and demeaning tone, "How can we sympathize with those who are of less value than us?" I settle my gaze onto Hermione, praying that she's not taking me seriously.

"For instance, someone of a _lesser_ mind might struggle to remain sane with the weight of all that might go through, say a _stronger_ person." I curse myself for such language, language which seems to have not been noticed by the other Slytherins (who are pretending I died) and to have outraged everyone else in the room. I have to keep up pretenses, however, because even though they're pretending I'm dead, I know they're watching. They're watching and owling parents who are discussing me with the Dark Lord. Image is everything if my plan is to work.

"That will be a detention for you, Mr. Zabini, in my office tonight. You—and the rest of the class—are well aware of the fact that there is no difference. There is no better—no _purer_—and you'd do well to remember that." I'm surprised at how strong the professor's voice is, but then again, supporters of Albus Dumbledore don't have much to fear. After all, Death Eaters fear only the Dark Lord himself more than Dumbledore.

"Yes, _sir_." I say, raising my voice at the end in further disrespect. I almost want to apologize to him right then and there, though I can't manage to make myself actually care about his feelings, which makes me feel even worse. Combined with the burn that I can feel from Hermione's gaze that screams 'Let up already!', I am about ready to leave, but I quickly remember why I even bothered to show up for class today, one of the few times I've been all year.

"The sympathy charms, as I was saying, are important to the . . ." I quickly tune him out and instead go over the plan for the next few minutes. I hope that the incantation works. I hope I'm able to pull it off. It needs to be wandless, of course, but will it be doable? Will Hermione and Draco have a link to each other's minds?

I take a deep breath, ready to begin. I close my eyes and think solely on linking, picturing a few chain links in my mind and imagining them fusing together. I then force all thoughts out of my mind, a feat that is becoming more and more difficult as time goes by. I push away thoughts of my mother and thoughts of the distress this is probably going to cause Hermione. I push away the pain from Draco's rejection and the loneliness from all of Slytherin's consequent rejection. I push away thoughts of what the headmaster knows and how it could ruin my plan. I push away the fear that's building inside as my time in Azkaban draws nearer. And finally, I push away the worry that my plan isn't a good one or that it won't work at all and I'll simply rot in Azkaban until the ministry falls and the Dark Lord comes to kill me. Then I open my eyes and glance back and forth between my targets—between Draco and Hermione—and mutter the incantation softly in the hope of no one overhearing it.

The wait is agony, and the next few seconds roll into what feels like hours. I notice my fingers beginning to drip with sweat and I feel like I'm standing inside a boiling cauldron. I'm literally at the edge of my seat and I lean towards the front of the class, appearing as though this is the most interesting lecture I've ever heard, though in reality I'm looking for some sort of sign.

Finally, I get what I'm after. Hermione's head jerks up from the notes she's been taking, her eyes wide, and Draco begins glancing about the room (though he still refuses to acknowledge me), an expression of terror on his face.

Taking my cue, I stand up and roll my eyes dramatically at Flitwick. He turns and—with an exasperated look—asks, "What is it this time, Mr. Zabini?"

"Sir," I smile evilly, "I do believe that PDA is entirely uncalled for in this class. Do you not agree?" I motion towards Ron Weasley, who is currently drooling as he gazes at Hermione. Not enough to actually be PDA, but enough to merit a blush, or in Ron's case, an entirely red complexion.

"Sit down, Mr. Zabini." Flitwick sighs and looks over at Ron, then back to me. "I do not tolerate public displays of affection in this class, true. However, I do not tolerate disruption of my class by anyone, and that includes you. Now sit. Down." Instead of obeying, I stroll away from my desk and out the door, not bothering to look back. I doubt that I could sit through the whole lecture with the guilt, anyway.

* * *

Not five minutes after strolling out of class, I enter the Astronomy Tower, hoping for some peace of mind. I spin slow circles, taking in everything beneath me: the laughter of carefree first years, the clumps of gossiping fifth year girls, the occasional couple strolling hand in hand. I could almost forget up here. I could almost push the thoughts of everything I've done and everything I will do. The world seems so . . . ordinary here, like nothing's wrong. I can almost pretend that the Dark Lord isn't having secret meetings at Malfoy Manor and plotting to kill hundreds of thousands of people simply because of their "filthy" blood.

My stomach lurches at the thought of so many deaths, and I double over, disgusted even more with myself for forgetting that than for linking Draco and Hermione's minds. I vomit all over the stones of the floor, spitting forcefully to clear my mouth of the rubbish. I rock dangerously on my heels as my head fills with fuzz. Sinking to my knees, I focus on my breathing and try to forget that there's vomit at my feet. Thinking about forgetting again, however, causes me to throw up again, retching for the better part of ten minutes.

"Blaise?" A voice questions behind me, full of concern, but I'm too focused on the awful gagging to catch who it is. I vaguely hear footsteps coming to stand beside me, but I could be mistaken. After all, it's hard to hear over the shaky breaths and the slap of the contents of my stomach against the hard floor.

Finally, my stomach settles, and I collapse, breathlessly sprawled across the floor, the reek of the vomit making everything worse. Whoever is in here with me decides to clean up the remnants of my lunch. I hear a squelching sound that is presumably my vomit followed by a screech from the students below as it presumably falls to the ground. I don't bother to lift myself to see who it is, though, and instead close my eyes, figuring anyone who wants to hurt me would've done so already.

"Blaise?" This time it occurs to me that Ginny Weasley has been watching me puke for the last five minutes. I open my eyes a bit and push myself up with my elbow, the shaky feeling beginning to fade away. Still, I nearly crash back to the ground a couple of times until I successfully force myself against a wall for support. Glancing up, I notice Ginny watching me with a look of concern that makes me jump, not used to anything but fire on the face of the redhead.

"What . . . what are you doing here?" My voice sounds pathetic, but it's the best I can do right now.

"Blaise, it's the Astronomy Tower." I stare back dumbly. Ginny rolls her eyes. "Anyone can be up here. It's the Astronomy Tower . . . fair game."

"And yet I don't see the rest of your year up here for their Astronomy lesson. I meant specifically, Ginny." I nearly cringe at how utterly exhausted I sound, but it's pointless to pretend otherwise.

"Fine," she snaps, "I'm mad at Harry and there's no way I'm going down for dinner when all he'll do is look all confused. It's all he ever does when I'm mad at him! He should know what he did!"

"And what did he do?" I'm certainly grateful for any subject that isn't me, so I answer probably a little bit too enthusiastically.

Ginny narrows her eyes, "Why should I tell you? I heard what you said about me, you know. I heard that you think I'm ugly and a filthy little blood traitor who isn't worth anything." She scowls at me with a frown so wide that you could practically write a book on it.

My mind instantly jumps to my words on the train ride, the words I said to my fellow Slytherins: "_I wouldn't touch a filthy blood traitor like her whatever she looked like_."

I bite my lip slightly, wondering what I can safely reveal. _You know what, _I tell myself, _enough with the lying_!

Ginny stomps her foot and declares, "I didn't lie to you!"

"Excuse me?"

Ginny glares at me. "You! You said, 'enough with the lying'! What are you on about?"

"Oh. Sorry." I gulp and pretend that my knees are exceptionally intriguing. "About what you heard on the train . . ." I begin, meeting her eyes, "It's a little game, basically. It's called saving face."

"Well saving face certainly didn't win you any of my favor," Ginny huffs, her nostrils flaring.

"I'm sorry, I mean it. I'm beginning to tire of hurting people."

Ginny scrunches up her face in confusion. "Then don't. Stop hurting people." She says it plainly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"One year, Ginny. One year." I hold up a finger for emphasis.

"One year and you'll stop hurting people?"

I can't decide if she's playing with me or not, so I decide to take the bait, "Ginny, Ginny, Ginny . . . you can't have forgot already. I told you that I will explain everything to you if you come and find me next year. Heck, I'll be extra generous this once and change the terms. If you come and find me, I'll tell you at the start of next school year."

"Oh, how kind, sir." She says this in a bored tone, sticking her tongue at me.

"Well if I told you now, there would be absolutely none of my favorite thing in the world: suspense." I stick my tongue out, too, winking playfully at her.

She suddenly jumps to her feet and claps her hands, "I have the greatest of ideas! You should come to Slughorn's Christmas Party with me!"

"Why on earth would you want _that_?"

"Easy: it's the perfect revenge against Harry and it's much, much better than Hermione's Cormac McLaggen."

"McLaggen?"

"Well, she invited him several months ago to make Ron jealous. Ron only had eyes for Lavender Brown, see, and I convinced her that he was worth pursuing . . . but he broke up with the girl over some stupid stunt that I paid Fred and George to pull. He may or may not have thrown up all over her, repeatedly." Ginny laughs at the memory.

"Anyways, Ron and LavLav—that's what he called her when they were together. Totally disgusting, I know. They broke up, and Ron went almost immediately to Hermione, but the thing is, Hermione told me that she really doesn't like him like that anymore, and I guess him with Lavender hurt her too much or something to even be worth keeping the option open. Hermione put off saying anything to him, saying she didn't want to hurt him, though I think that she should've just broke his imbecilic heart.

"Anyways, she told Ron a few days ago that she thinks they should just be friends, and Ron of course blew up, saying that they were meant to be and implying that she wouldn't find anybody else anyway. Conveniently, Cormac McLaggen is pretty thick and pretty full of it, so I guess he never realized that the Christmas thing was off for them. Hermione's just going to go with him and make Ron realize what an idiot he is, though Hermione swears it's only so she won't have to go alone."

"Well." I swallow down the slight anger towards Ron for hurting Hermione that's beginning to bubble to the surface. "That's quite a story, but I don't see how it has anything to do with you taking me to this party to piss off Harry Potter."

"Blaise, Blaise, Blaise . . ." she laughs again, "Harry's great, but I need them all to understand that I'm not a baby anymore! He thinks that I'm too young to face the dangers of life. I'll certainly show him! If he could just . . . see it, I think we could be happy together! I guess step one is to show him that I can go to the Christmas party with whoever I want to, because a baby would wait for Harry to ask her, and he probably won't ask anyway. He'll probably just assume we're going together, yet another event where he can protect me. I know we're dating, but sometimes it just feels like he's . . . my bodyguard. I can't possibly live with that!"

Now it's my turn to chuckle, "I appreciate your situation, but I can't go with you. I have to keep up appearances. I'm sure you'll understand."

"No, I don't!" She glares at me, "Why won't you just help me! You did it once already, so—"

"—Don't bring that up anymore!" I feel myself stiffen. "And anyway, that was different! That one I could lie my way out of. This one, this one is too . . . deliberate. A Zabini can't be seen taking a Weasley to a dance. It just isn't done."

"And why would you care about that?" Her glare darkens. "You said yourself that your mother is a horrible person and the only family remaining. Why would you care about what Zabini's do or don't do?"

I sigh tiredly, pulling up my left sleeve to reveal my Dark Mark.

"Woah," she gasps, "It's come through already? I thought I'd covered it up with the burns."

"It's pretty powerful dark magic," I mutter.

"So . . . you insulted me on the train and won't come to the Christmas Party with me because of this?"

I smile weakly, "Exactly." I pull the sleeve back down before looking back to Ginny, expecting another scowl. Instead, I see a vague smile.

"One year, Blaise. One year." Then she leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

* * *

I sit at the Great Hall the next morning, picking at my eggs and waffles and trying my best to pretend that the outright rejection by the rest of my House is beneath me. The students of Hogwarts need to find something new to occupy their time because I'm quite tired of the complete silence every time I enter for my food and the sidelong glances in the halls. The worst is the other students of Slytherin, because in Slytherin, we all stay united . . . supposedly.

What's really going through most of their heads is how to get the most they can out of the whole situation. Those who aren't actually plotting how best to benefit are pretending that they are because one must keep up appearances. The trouble is that some of them will decide that the best use of their time is to show the rest of Hogwarts what it means to be a real Slytherin. In fact, some of them have decided it already. I've seen them, the clumps of older students standing near the shadows of doorways or walls. They likely feel the need to beat me into submission.

Everyone knows that Draco is the real leader of Slytherin, and I was second. Pansy was third, and she made the decision between the two of us. While Pansy and Draco won't physically hurt me, I'm not certain that they'll actively forbid the rest of Slytherin from doing so. I'm an adequate wizard, but against a hoard of them I don't stand a chance.

I have this feeling that the decisions are happening right now. I can feel the tension between the entire house. It is of course now them versus me, but I don't think they've decided how this whole thing is going to play out. I catch Theo staring at me for a few seconds before looking away. He does this a few times before I catch what he wants me to catch: the split second that he bites his lip. I repeat the action the next time he looks, to which he nods ever so slightly. It means that I should be concerned. Next, he lets his gaze rest on a few specific individuals, including Marcus Flint—a mean person anyway—Millicent Bulstrode—who is personally invested because I kissed her in front of everyone—and Adrian Pucey—a particularly adamant fellow. I nod slightly in return, to which he mouths 'leave' right before yawning widely. He probably means that I should stop staying in the dungeons. I pretend to itch the edge of my nose, raising a single eyebrow to question where Theo thinks I should go. He simply gazes up at the ceiling as if staring off into space.

_The Room of Requirements, _I think to myself before nodding again and excusing myself by pushing my full plate away from me. I'm not really that hungry anyway. I make my way towards the Common Room and my dormitory, preparing to grab anything that I want with me for the remainder of my school year. Theo's right. I need to leave before things get too difficult. I can't deal with threats to my safety, not when so much is about to be at stake.

Entering the room, I reach into my trunk and stuff some things into my bag: the books I need for the rest of the semester, my cauldron, the suit I'm wearing to the Ministry of Magic, and a small glass dragon. The glass dragon was a gift, a gift from Draco. We've spent so many years here. There are so many memories, some painful and some pleasant, but right now I feel like they're all being sucked away. Our friendship has ended, most likely for good. It scares me to no end, but I know that I'll likely die in Azkaban. I remember the day we became friends so clearly . . .

* * *

I stood by the windows of the main entrance, staring after the carriages as they drove through the blanket of snow. I swore I could hear the students laughing inside, heading home for Christmas. I wished that I could go, too, but it wasn't home that had me jealous. I knew what awaited me at home: my mother and her fourth husband. My mother mostly avoided me, and her husband (I never, ever called any of them my stepfather nor will I ever) insisted that I stay in my room, even taking my meals there. I hated it. I still hate it. Looking back on it, I hate that they did it to me, I hate that my mother allowed it.

What I was coveting wasn't toys or Christmas Hams or even snowball fights. What I wanted was to be happy, to know that my parents loved me no matter what. It had been four years since my father left, but fours years wasn't nearly long enough to take away the sting. My father left me, and my mother hated the sight of me. That's all I knew, and at eleven, it hurt even more than it does now.

I ran away from the windows as soon as the last carriage rolled out of sight. I told myself that Slytherins never cried, but I couldn't help it. I ran straight to my dormitory, tears flooding my vision. I swung open the door in the hopes of having a good cry privately, but when I entered, I heard a sniff coming from the room. I looked over and caught sight of the sniffer: Draco Malfoy. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks streaked with tears that were still falling, his lip trembling. He looked exactly like I felt: miserable.

We stared at each other for several moments, him on his bed and me in the doorway. I couldn't shake the terror of breaking the Slytherin vow of secrecy. I waited in dread for him to laugh, for him to scowl, for him to do anything, really. Still, he made no attempts at movement, and I saw a reflection of my own terror etched on his face. He hadn't moved at all and I suddenly felt a bit less frightened. It dawned on me that he was as sincere in his tears as I was.

Finally, I walked over to where he sat. I stared into his features for a few lingering moments before plopping down beside him. I wiped my tears clumsily on my sleeve and focused on the in-and-out motion of my breathing.

It was Draco who broke the silence. "I take it you didn't stay to explore the castle?" He kept his tone even, as though we were talking about the weather, but I was already learning to read into things. I could see the slight tremble of his lip, the tremble that likely meant he was still as scared as I.

"No, it's my mother." I ducked my head in shame, for surely no one else would ever understand.

"Is she . . . is she okay?" I normally would've jumped back from offers of real concern like this one, but Draco looked so . . . frightened. It was like he knew what it meant to live in a world where everything was uncertain, where nothing was as perfect as it seemed. It was a world that I began to realize we were both trapped in, a world where the truth cannot be known.

"Yeah," I answered, "She just hates me is all, that and her stupid fourth husband makes me stay in my room."

"Fourth?" Draco raised his eyebrow, but this was already going much better than I could've hoped, so I answered candidly.

"Yeah. My father . . . left. Four years ago. She's married three times since."

"Oh." Draco had a dark look on his face, as if thinking deeply about whether or not to be open with me.

"And you," I questioned, "Why are you here?"

Draco swallowed and looked to the floor. He was silent for several minutes, and I was beginning to think that he wouldn't answer me at all when he finally spoke.

"It's my father." He glanced at me and winced as though expecting laughter. "He hates me too, thinks that I'm not good enough. He also beats my mother, though don't tell anyone that. He used to beat me, too, but she stopped him. Now he just beats her."

"Oh." I almost wanted to cry with Draco for hearing that he'd been treated this way, but I knew even then that it wasn't the answer. "You know, if we're stuck here, we may as well stay together." I tentatively smiled at him through the puffiness that was my face. He smiled slightly back.

That was the beginning. That winter I received word that my mother's fourth husband had tragically died. That summer, she remarried. Her and her fifth husband preferred to be alone, so when I asked if I could visit the Malfoys for a week, she was overjoyed to give me permission. When I got to Draco's house, I stepped out of the fireplace to hear a loud slapping noise. I wondered what could possibly be wrong, so I rushed towards the noise. The noise was coming from a room nearby, and when I went to enter it, I saw Narcissa Malfoy on the ground, Lucius standing above her viciously as he struck her again and again. I went to open the door, but Draco grabbed me by the shoulders and led me to another room, where we talked and he told me all about it, how it happened at least once a week now, though when it started it was nearly every day.

A week later, I brought him to my house, and he witnessed the calloused way my mother spoke to me and the many men she brought home. He watched the men do strange things, things that I never thought about until Professor Moody brought up the Imperious Curse. The next Christmas, Draco bought me the glass dragon to match his own. We promised that we'd always be there for each other: strong like a dragon.

* * *

As I stuff the last of my things into the now heavy bag, I feel tears in my eyes, remembering all that we've been through, all the storms that we've roughed. I only wish we could have roughed this storm. I can only hope that my plan works. If my plan works, then everything was for something. If it fails . . . well, I'd like to not think about that.


	10. Not Because It Hurts

**Chapter Ten: ****_Not Because It Hurts_**

"I miss you . . ." The lingering voice of my mother hisses in my ear, the voice that keeps me awake at night and fills my dreams. She sits on the edge of my bed, her fingers reaching gently toward me: never quite touching me. I wish that the woman would stop taunting me, but there are some things that you never forget.

Still, her echoing voice only serves to worsen everything. It worsens the heavy guilt that I feel for what I've done to Draco and Hermione, as well as what has happened to Ginny because of me. It worsens the dread of Azkaban, that dark place where I know the horrible things that she's done will dance at the edges of my vision eternally. It worsens the fight I have to put up just to get out of bed in the morning. It ruins my appetite and leaves me tossing and turning for hours just to get the smallest amount of sleep.

I groan and push the bedsheets from myself. The clock reads 5:00 a.m. I squeeze my eyes shut and will the dark and terrible feeling at the pit of my stomach away before finally sitting up and groaning again. I force myself to my feet by moving one thing at a time: first my right leg, then my left leg, etc. I reach for my wand and trudge—like a soldier on their way to the death row—to the mirror that the Room of Requirements (my new bedroom) has provided.

I light every chandelier using wandless magic, a feat that takes roughly ten minutes, but is good practice. I close my eyes and focus on flames and the flickering, dancing pattern in which they spend their small existence. Then I try to push away the pain of mine: the guilt that encompasses everything, the hurt that stabs everywhere, and the intense fear that only grows as time passes. Finally, when everything fades in comparison to the fire, I mutter "Incendio" and the candles in the room are suddenly lighting one by one.

When I open my eyes, the weight of everything that I cast aside for the spell crashes into me so intensely that I fall to my knees, the scraping pain of the stone against them barely noticeable behind the weight of everything else. I stand up shakily and look myself up and down in the mirror, almost shocked by the zombie I see before me. I cast a glamour under my eyes and silently whisper thankfulness for my Italian complexion: surely otherwise I'd look like a ghost.

I hear the door creak behind me and turn to see none other than Theodore Nott stride into the room, a grimness set into his face and a glamour of his own sparkling slightly under his eyes. He glances at me only briefly, as though he intends to walk past me, but then stops directly behind me and to my left.

"Augustus," he begins softly in a tone only years of living in the elite of the Sacred Twenty-Eight can teach you, "You're unwell. Quite frankly, you look worse than I do, and I hardly ever sleep for thoughts of her, falling and falling, never quite touching the ground. She screams at me to save her, but there's naught that I can do. I refer to my mother, of course."

I stiffen at his words, but keep my gaze locked into the mirror, trying not to steal glances at his dreadfully matted locks that usually are kept in perfect condition. I feel him set his hand on my shoulder.

"Blaise," he tries again, "I'm worried about you." I can hear his showy pureblood voice melt away as it always does when he is at his most sincere. "Hermione's worried about you too. In fact, I caught her wandering aimlessly through the dungeons looking for me to ask about you. You haven't spoken to her in six weeks. Hell, you haven't spoken to anyone in at least three. You told me what had to be done, but Blaise—and I say this as not just an accomplice, but also as a friend—is there anything more I can do? Because if there is . . ."

"—No! There's . . . there's nothing! Theo I can't drag you further into this!"

"Blaise!" His voice switches from one of gentle concern to one that is sharp and rebuking. "At some point in time, you'll have to let someone in. Why won't you trust me?"

"I . . ."

_If you don't trust him, at least tell him why. _The thought echoes around in my head as though floating through empty space, but still I remain motionless.

"Blaise Augustus Zabini." Theo's tone returns to its formal state: mellow, slow, and yet somehow hardened into determination. It's a tone that he no doubt learned from growing up among the pureblood elite, but he's struggling to keep the spacing right: he's emotional. This is hurting him. This is yet another thing to add to the list of things for which I am guilty.

"I've been drinking again."

I jerk suddenly in surprise, turning to face him. I know that interruptions will cut off whatever he'll say next, however, so I keep quiet.

"Firewhiskey," he says in a whisper, "It's always firewhiskey. It's my father's favorite." He hangs his head in shame, pulling out a flask from his robes.

"This," he continues, "Is supposed to remind me not to do it, not to give into it. But I'm mostly alone, Blaise. I'm telling you now that you shouldn't be."

I open my mouth to speak, but Theo cuts me off.

"—But! I understand that you want to be left alone. So, I'll leave. You'll go on hurting and feeling guilty. I'll likely go on drinking. When the time comes, both of us will play our parts. It doesn't matter if we're hurt, we both knew that. We both _know_ that."

With that, Theo turns to leave. He reaches his hand towards the door and nearly opens it before I stop him.

"Theo, wait. I . . . I. You're right, you know . . . and you're the only one who knows everything . . . about the plan. Every detail. The only thing that you might have missed is that I'm scared." I suck in a huge and desperate breath before continuing at a speed that surprises me, words tumbling from my mouth like water from a burst dam.

"I'm-so-desperately-afraid-that-it-won't-work-and-that-it-will-all-have-been-for-nothing!" I gasp in and out at the statement, sweat coating my face from the aftermath of an inner war. I take another breath, but this time I at least try to pace myself instead of stringing everything together.

"I'm afraid that I'll fail. I feel horrible for linking Draco and Hermione's minds and even worse about what my mother nearly did to Ginny Weasley. I'm also angry, so very angry about what my mother did to me my whole life, but at the same time I'm disappointed in myself for failing to be good enough for either of my parents. I just, I'm so . . . I'm so depressed, Theo! Every morning I feel this weight crashing all over me and . . . and I just feel so hopeless! I can barely get out of bed!

"I haven't gone to a class in forever because I feel like I can't see them: Hermione or Draco. I can't face them, the guilt . . . it's just . . . it's just eating at me! I don't know what to do anymore! I have the plan, and of course you were right when you said I would follow through, it's just that I'm . . . I feel like I'm signing my life away. And I am, really! Who knows how long I'll be stuck in Azkaban, if I ever get out at all? I've done so many bad things already and there's still so many bad things left to do. What if I crack? What if I lose my mind? I have nightmares all the time, you know. Mostly of my mother, but also of that place; of getting my soul sucked away and being trapped in a senseless world of terror forever, trapped in my own body.

"Can you imagine what that'd even be like? I end up bent over the toilet puking my guts out every time I try. I wish that I could stop thinking about it, you know? It's just that I can't. Every bit of my soul is screaming for me to back away; to give it up. I'm not only fighting the odds, I'm fighting myself. And I'm one enemy that I can't beat, but the plan can't be rushed. It has to wait until the time's right. But what is the right time, really? HOW THE HELL WILL I KNOW?"

I could be wrong, but I swear I catch a slight smile on Theo's face before it forms into a grim look, a look that's contemplated all that I have, maybe more. The look is heavy, weighed down by all that surrounds us: of the impossible and yet imperative task that we've set for ourselves, that the world has set for us.

"Accio Firewhiskey," Theo demands suddenly, and within a few moments, a large black suitcase has come to meet us. He slowly opens the case and gingerly lifts each individual bottle from its newspaper wrapping, each headline and picture from the Daily Prophet fighting for my attention. Then, one by one and almost in ritualistic fashion, he crosses the entirety of the Room of Requirements where he drains the bottle's contents into a sink that the Room has provided. Finally—after each one has been poured and lined up, one next to the other—he lifts them with his hand and smashes them to bits against the heavy stone of the mantel, glass flying everywhere and cutting both his hands and his face.

Theo leaves his wounds unattended and turns to face me, fire in his eyes and blood trailing down his cheeks and knuckles, shards of glass laying at his feet. He looks almost terrifying with such determination, but instead of anything else that he might plausibly have done, Theo tilts his head back and laughs deeply. It's a pure, clean laugh—purified with fire and blood—it's like the laugh of a child. It screams of freedom: the end of self-imposed shackles.

Finally, his face stills. He latches the suitcase by hand before standing to his full height. Then he once again makes for the door, but before he leaves, he turns to me one last time. "I'll see you tonight at Slughorn's Christmas Party."

I open my mouth to protest, but Theo lifts a finger to silence me. "Ah! It does you no good to be alone. I _will _see you then."

* * *

I can hear the tinkle of bells and the chorus of Christmas carols before I even step foot on the great staircase: the staircase where I once kissed Millicent and the staircase that carried Hermione Granger during the Yule Ball when no one could keep their eyes off her, not even Draco and the rest of us Slytherins that must stay united. I daresay that even Theo was staring at her, and he's one of the best at being what he's supposed to be.

The memories sparkle away as soon as my glamour does, the magic that Slughorn must have performed for the party easily peeling it away. My mother was the one who taught me about it, actually—the types of magic that would be peeled away as well as the feeling that would come with it—a slight tugging, like having a single breath pulled away. I tap at my undereye hesitantly, a pinch at my gut telling me not to expose such weakness, not to reveal that I'm lacking in sleep even more than I usually am with my insomnia.

"Ah, Blaise Zabini, how good of you to come!" The chuckling and almost snorting voice of Professor Slughorn greets me with a ridiculously overdone bow.

"Good of you to invite me, Professor, the holidays might be quite a bore without this." I smile, though I never feel it reach my eyes or my soul.

"They would, wouldn't they," he laughs merrily, "Indeed they would! Well, my boy, enjoy the party—but not too much, if you get my meaning." He laughs again as though he's just said the most funny and clever thing ever to grace the ears of mankind. It isn't that he's arrogant, it's just that he's massively awkward and maybe just a little more confident than he perhaps should be. Either way the man grates my nerves.

I walk away, the smile melting from my lips as soon as my back is turned. I catch the eye of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived himself. Currently he's the Boy-Who-Scowls, shooting me a dark look that I would be insulted by if I were everything I've always pretended to be.

Ignoring him, I walk directly towards the least noticeable area of the room, an alcove near a wall that's covered in drapes. I slip into the darkness just in time to hear a faint sniff behind me. I turn to the sound, my eyes failing to pinpoint its whereabouts.

"Who's there?" I growl the words as fiercely as I can, hoping to scare whatever coward is over here hiding from the party.

"Get off your pedestal and quit growling at me! You're no less a coward than I am . . . trying to scare off a fellow miserable . . ."

"Ginny?"

"What the hell do you care, you already told me that you wouldn't come with me!" The words sting just a bit, but before I can fully react, she continues.

"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. You said you would explain and I believe you. It's just that I've been having a rather miserable night. I shouldn't have bit off your head like that."

"No, I shouldn't have growled. I scared you, and you're right, I did refuse to come with you."

"Well," Ginny tries, the sniffing only barely affecting her voice, "What brings you to this abandoned alcove? You haven't exactly won any attendance awards of late: why even come?"

"I don't know. I wasn't going to come. I shouldn't have come, not really. I'm not exactly enjoying myself. Apparently it does me no good to be alone so much."

"Who told you that," she asks before continuing with, "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Good advice, though."

"You think so?"

"I know so. When you feel alone, you kind of are alone, aren't you. That's what Luna says, anyways. But almost no one really does need to be alone. If you push people away, most of them won't bother. Not much of a way to live your life if you ask me."

"I hate to break it to you, Ginny, but you're also hiding in this alcove."

"A good point right there." Ginny laughs despite the fact that she's likely been crying.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, it's just bloody Harry. I waited and I waited, but Harry never even asked me to come! I came all alone and then I saw him here and he . . . he acted like it didn't matter at all that he didn't ask me to come with him! Ugh! He's so . . . infuriating . . . sometimes!"

"He's Gryffindor through and through alright."

"What's _that _supposed to mean! Do you think that Gryffindors are stupid? _I'm _a Gryffindor! Do you think _I'm _stupid! _Poor stupid Ginny and her stupid boyfriend Harry, _is that it?"

"Okay, okay!" I raise my hands in surrender. "I meant that he's a boy through and through."

"Then why didn't you say that!" She demands, and I can almost feel the heat radiating from her.

"Because Gryffindor doesn't include me . . ." I mumble.

"Excuse me?"

"Because, though I hate to admit it, we men can be quite clueless at times. I just . . . I don't like to say it and blaming it on the Gryffindors makes it so I don't have to."

"Rather childish, don't you think?"

"Lay off, woman!"

"Ugh! You're no better than Ronald!" She sighs loudly.

"Excuse me? I am **not **anything like Ronald Billius Weasley!" I spit the name aggressively.

"How do you know his middle name?"

"I know everything, of course." I grin playfully, my eyes finally having adjusted to the gloom.

"You would." She makes a face and mutters, "Slytherin."

"Now who's House-ist?" I accuse triumphantly, barely caring that my house has been affronted.

"House-ist? That isn't even a word, Zabini!"

"It's BLAISE!"

"Mmhmm, and my name's Gerald."

"But my name IS Blaise!"

"Sure it is."

"Ginny!"

"Excuse me, but I only respond to Gerald as of now."

I can't help but laugh, a laugh in which Ginny joins me. And for a moment, all of my troubles seem to melt away.


	11. To Meet You

**Updates, updates . . . I'm so bad at this! Why am I so bad at this? Anyways, here is Chapter 11. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Eleven: ****_I'm Dying to Meet You_**

Ginny grins at me through the gloom, the noise of the party merely a faint background from this secluded alcove. Somehow her grin feels warming. For a second it's like time is frozen, like I could just stay here forever, but then . . . then everything I've done, every way that I've failed, and every bridge that I've burned plunges into me like a knife to the stomach. Suddenly it's all I can do not to bolt.

Closing my eyes, I slide to the floor and try to keep myself together, to keep this polished and crisp exterior that I've fought so hard for intact. I shove my fingers through my curls and cling to them as if my life depends on it. I focus on something else instead: I focus on heat. I begin to push away everything. I push away the anxiety, the hurt, the fear, the depression, the guilt, and even the happiness I felt only a moment ago. I focus on pain, the searing pain that heat causes, the red-hot throbbing pain that follows you long after your skin burns. I focus on the colors of the flames, then set my attention to the hottest part of the flame: the blue. In my mind's eye I see a great blue flame surrounding my vision, flickering and forcing itself further and further—

"Woah." I open my eyes to see Ginny gaping at me. Following her gaze, I notice that my hand is glowing with blue light, steam curling up from it in faint wisps. In an instant it's gone, but it was there: it was real.

"I didn't know I could do that," I breathe, my hand still stretched in front of me.

"But you were trying to do it." Ginny shakes her head. It takes a lot of effort to cast wandless magic, and Ginny no doubt knows this.

"Not exactly," I clarify quickly, "I was trying to clear my mind." I find myself looking at the floor, almost afraid to meet her gaze.

"You really are depressed, aren't you?"

"Pardon," I ask, jerking my head up in surprise.

"Hermione: she said that she thought you might be. Said that she could tell just by looking at you. You and Draco both, actually. I guess it isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"What isn't all it's cracked up to be?" This conversation took a quick turn towards me and my problems.

"You know what I'm talking about."

She stares at my forearm, the place that we both know my Dark Mark lies.

"Yeah," I admit slowly, "I know what you're talking about."

Ginny wastes no time with her next statement: "So . . . are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Depressed?"

I sigh softly. There's just no beating around the bush with this girl.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"Oh." It's Ginny who looks away from me this time.

Suddenly I stand up and hold out my arm. I don't for the life of me know what's compelling me to do this, but the next words that come out of my mouth cannot be mistaken.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"Will you, Ms. Ginerva Weasley do me, Mr. Blaise Zabini, the honor of this dance?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Blaise. We need to talk about this! We need to talk about **you**."

_Funny, because my personal life is the last thing I want to talk about_, I find myself thinking.

"Ginny—" I begin before she cuts me off.

"—I know, I know. One year, at the start of next school year. But what if . . . what if it can't wait that long?"

"Please, Ginny, let me do this. If it's a mistake . . . just . . ." I trail off, losing whatever words I was about to say. The truth is that she's right. The truth is that it can't wait that long; that I'm unraveling at the seams. The truth is . . . complicated.

Before I can say anything else—if I was going to at all—Ginny shoots me a sharp look, takes my hand, and stands. She curtseys awkwardly and nearly falls over during the attempt. I think she's trying to follow pureblood etiquette.

I laugh out loud for a second before I remember that I'm hiding and slap my hand over my mouth.

"What?" Ginny demands.

"Nothing, nothing. It's just that you don't have to do all that. I really don't care about pureblood tradition. Joining the Sacred Twenty-Eight? That was always mother's thing."

"Blaise?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't dance with you."

"Okay." I take a step back and turn to take my leave from the alcove, not entirely sure what else to do when one's fellow party outcast rejects their offer for a dance

"Are you really that daft," she mutters, pulling me back by the elbow, "I can't hear the music, so I can't dance with you. Now, if you would follow me outside of this alcove—"

"—Nope, no way. I already explained why I can't be seen with you."

"Come on! Please? Can't I just make Harry jealous this one time? I'll bet even Hermione's doing a better job than me, and I practically had to drag her to get her to come at all. Don't tell me that someone dragged you into this?"

"Well . . ."

"Seriously? Who?"

"Theo."

"Theo, Theo, Theo . . . Theodore Nott," she questions, her eyebrow raised skeptically as though I were hanging out with the Dark Lord himself.

"That's the one."

"Seriously?"

"No, I'm lying to you."

"Are you?" Ginny makes the ugliest face I've seen in a long time.

"No, of course not. Not really the lying type. Charades? Yes. Flat-out in-your-face lying? That I don't like to do."

"I'm still not dancing with you."

"I kind of figured that. Oh well, I've probably been here long enough anyway. I should get back to my—"

"—Your brooding?"

"Which means what, exactly?"

"Nothing, nothing." Ginny grins at me mischievously and pulls back the drape covering the alcove.

"Well, Blaise," she continues with a smile, "When the year is over . . . let's just say that I'm dying to meet you—the real you."

_And I'll be dying when I meet you. _I think. Aloud I say, "Goodnight, Ginny."

* * *

I climb the many flights of stairs to the Room of Requirements—my room, I guess—and am panting by the time I get to the top. I'm not sure when I allowed myself to get so out of shape, but I realize now that I've made my problems worse by wallowing in them. Theo was right: it does me no good to be alone. In an instant, I switch directions and head back down the flight of stairs, directly towards Slytherin Commons.

It's suddenly so clear now. My plan, it's—

"—Blaise!"

Wham! I feel my body bounce backwards and am almost expectantly waiting for the crack of my head against the stone steps and the blackness that will surely follow. I wonder if dying will hurt, and I wonder how it's possible to have screwed up so badly as to die without having saved your best friend first.

The crack, the blood, the blackness . . . they never come. As swiftly as I fell, a hand grasps mine and I dangle, my head mere centimeters from the step that would almost definitely mean brain damage and quite possibly mean death. Who is this my savior and yet also very nearly the cause of my demise?

"Blaise, I'm . . . oh my gosh I almost killed you!" Before me gawks none other than Hermione Granger, her jawline visibly shaking as she helps me into a sitting position. Without so much as a word of encouragement, she plops down beside me in all her finery, probably just having left Slughorn's Party herself.

_I've missed you,_ I think to myself, allowing a faint smile to spread across my face. I glance over to see her staring at me, a look of concern eating any other expression her face might have carried.

"Blaise, I . . . what did I do?"

"You already said, you 'almost killed' me." I chuckle awkwardly, followed by a loud swallow.

Hermione nods resolutely before changing angles. "You look . . ." her voice trails off, leaving me to wonder what she couldn't bring herself to say.

I laugh again, only this time it's a bitter laugh. With a flick of my hand, my wand is out of my pocket and the Glamour Charm that I had reapplied is removed, leaving only my naked face, which I know looks a bit like if death and malnourishment had a child.

Hermione gasps and brings her hands to my chin, turning my head to get a good look and running her fingers down my face to check for the especially sullen parts. The longer she spends studying me, the wider her eyes get and the more of her bottom lip disappears into her mouth as she chews almost methodically into it.

"Blaise," she begins again, "What . . . what happened to you?"

I glance around at our surroundings, wary of passersby overhearing things that needn't be known. "Come with me," I mutter. I grab her by the forearm and begin gently leading her back up the flight of stairs and towards the Room of Requirement.

When we're safely inside, I turn to face her. I'm telling her the truth. I might not tell her everything, but I'm not lying anymore.

"Hermione, I . . ." I'm going to tell her. I'm going to say . . .

"I can't do this right now," I blurt.

_What? You can't do this right now? You idiot! _But despite these thoughts, I find myself running farther than I realistically should be able to run in my current state, but I guess panic is good for some things after all. Down the stairs, out the front door, running and crashing through anything that gets in my way. I don't even know where I'm supposed to be going, but my legs seem to have a mind of their own. I want so badly to turn around and face her, to tell her everything: how sorry I am, how much I need to not be alone . . . but I won't give myself that chance. I can't fathom why.

As I slow down to a halt, I find myself staring out over the Black Lake. The stars twinkle so beautifully out here. How did I never notice that? I lower myself to the ground and lay back, taking in the sky. I can almost ignore the faint light coming from the castle and forget about the people inside. I can forget about everything and everyone I've hurt so much.

I can forget Hermione and her sweetness that isn't this stupid childlike sweetness, but rather something that exists with caution. She's quite bright, but she never allows herself to become conceited. She might not lose that, that almost innocence, if I stay away.

I can forget Ginny and her open and fierce curiosity. She wants to know the secrets behind everything, and strangely she wants to help me. I didn't think that there was that much to the Spitfire of Gryffindor, and I'm hoping that I can back out quickly enough for her to keep that.

I can forget Theo and his cautious approach to everything, the calm and cool demeanor he tries so hard to keep up. He is ashamed of his father, but he doesn't seem to notice that he's a good man himself. He has been trained up in prejudice, and yet somehow . . . somehow he is so much more than his surroundings. If I leave him alone, he might move on and salvage some of his life. He won't be caught up in some risky plan. He might even survive the coming war without me.

And most of all, I can forget Draco. I can forget the lost boy who is trying so hard to be what he thinks he ought to be. He who has fallen so far, who has done so many terrible things to the people around him, to the people that he's been told are beneath him. All I've done is drive a wedge between us and make him more alone than he's ever been.

But as much as I wish that I could spare them, as much as I want them to be okay . . . I can't do it. I know now more than ever that I can't do it alone, that I can't plot the demise of the Dark Lord alone. So, willing or not, I'll be dragging them all into this. Hermione and Theo know their parts, Draco never had a choice in it, and Ginny? She has gotten too close to Harry Bloody Potter not to be dragged into this mess somehow.

Despite this resolution, I find myself wondering not for the first time what the point to all of this mess was in the first place.

**Thanks for reading. Hopefully I'll update . . . you know what, I'll update eventually. We'll just call it "keeping up the suspense"..**


	12. Deeper

**This chapter contains a scene that you're probably familiar with, so don't hold any parts that don't strictly follow the book against me. In the series, Blaise Zabini is in no way the hero, so I figure I'm allowed to do whatever the heck I want with the scenes I borrow.  
**

****Chapter Twelve: _Deeper_****

"I'm scared, mummy," I whisper, trying to bore my eyes into hers and ignore the darkness around us. For a moment, I'm that little boy with the cat again, sitting with him as he died, singing softly and crying as my life seemed to fall apart. For a moment, this woman is all I have.

"There's no need to be afraid, boy. I love you."

She smiles, and for a single second everything is okay. For the shortest of moments, she loves me. I'm not that little boy who wonders desperately what in the world he did wrong; the boy who blames himself for not earning his mother's love. I am wanted.

Then the smile changes. Her smile that seemed so sweet before turns rather in a sour and somehow sickening way. She raises her wand and shouts, a green blast of light hitting me in the heart, sucking away my life. All I can see of the world around me is her face, heralded by the green light, eyes glinting in pleasure at what she's just done.

I jerk upright, trembling from the horrors of the nightmare. These dreams have been coming more often and stronger, each one somehow more real than the last; sticking with me later and later into the day that follows. I lunge my hand over the side of my bed and shakily pull out a Draught of Peace that I put there in anticipation of more nightmares. I swallow the entire vile in a single gulp and pull out my wand, whisking away the sweat on my brow and whitening my bloodshot eyes with a spell that Theo taught me. Finished, I lay back down and await the sleep that should come when my draught kicks in.

It's been five months since Draco cut ties with me, and the reality of my world keeps worsening and worsening. The dreams started the night I linked Hermione and Draco together, and they have continued on, more terrible each time. Sometimes I dream of my mother murdering me, sometimes I dream of a Dementor sucking my soul. Sometimes I dream of Draco falling to his death or murdering Dumbledore and enjoying it, basking in the Dark Lord's glory. Either way, dreams suck and I'm getting rather tired of having them.

I never thought that it would be this hard; that I would break down so quickly. I always considered myself a strong person, but suddenly I'm afraid of dreams: a constant reminder of the reality I made for myself, the reality in which I go to Azkaban—hell, basically—in one month's time.

Draco hardly makes appearances anymore, never showing up to most meals and from what Theo tells me, he's missed as many classes as I have. Hermione hasn't explicitly told me about their mind connection—which isn't surprising since I haven't spoken to her—but based on my research, they both should be able to control which thoughts go out to each other, though it's certainly possible for either of them to force their way into what the other doesn't want them to see. I had Theo check just to be certain, proving what I had hoped for the entire time. Legilimancy is pointless against her, and I'd imagine that it's the same for Draco.

The Draught of Peace seems to be working, and I soon feel reality begin to look better somehow. I am no longer afraid that my plan will fail. It seems . . . certain in a way that gives me a bit of confidence. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, enjoying the smaller things in life, the things that I rarely dwell upon, such as the ability to breathe and the feeling in my chest as I suck in the life-giving substance. The blankets, too, feel so soft and smooth, the green silk gracing my skin with the perfect balance of breathability and warmth. I take another deep breath and fall asleep almost instantly.

* * *

_What the . . ._?

Looking around, I find myself surrounded by portraits and pictures rather than sheets and silence. Some of the paintings snore fiercely and a few others stare at me with a look of surprise that matches how I'm feeling.

_Where am I? _

I turn and notice the entrance to Slytherin commons . . . several floors away from the Room of Requirement and my bed.

"Bloody . . ." I mutter to myself.

In an instant it dawns on me. I remember taking the Draught of Peace the night before and the stupid side effects I've been trying to brew out of my potion. This has to be yet another such side effect. For whatever reason, the potions recipes from the textbook never turn out right. I wish that I could talk to a real potions expert . . . if only I could tell someone what I was brewing without unwanted questions.

"What time is it?" I hiss softly to the nearest painting, a tall woman with a long nose that appears to be many different colored triangles all shoved together.

"Why, it's 3 p.m.," she bellows, her voice deeper than I expected, apparently unaware that I was trying to keep quiet.

"Thanks . . ." I sigh, irritated with myself for sleeping in so late, even though it is a Saturday. It's now that I hear a sound—a rather odd sound—coming from an abandoned prefect's bathroom. It sounds like . . . crying, like an open, pitiful kind of crying that one only cries when at the end of what they can bear: the lowest depths of despair. I'm not an entirely heartless jerk, so I begin to wander towards the sound.

Suddenly it seems very cold in the castle. I glance down and realize I'm still in my pajamas, which for me means that I'm standing in a pair of emerald boxer briefs, and they aren't exactly loose fitting. I normally would groan and turn around, but I want to see what's wrong. At this point I'm beyond caring about much of anything, anyway, so unless it turns out to be the Dark Lord himself crying in that bathroom, I probably won't even have a blush to hide.

It doesn't take long to get to the prefect's bathroom, and I'm about to slip in when I catch a glimpse of blonde—light blonde, Draco Malfoy blonde—and I freeze. I put a freezing spell on the door to hold it in place and then I ever so slightly back away so that I'm in the shadows. Draco's probably just beating up some poor kid again, and I don't want to run into him like this. But as I stare it becomes clear that Draco is very much alone: alone and leaning over the sink.

He's crying. Draco Malfoy is crying.

* * *

It was my 13th birthday, and I had been invited to Malfoy Manor to celebrate my coming into manhood. Narcissa had insisted that we eat a "proper" meal, consisting of ten courses and requiring that we use all of the proper silverware in the correct order. I spent much of the meal copying Draco.

Though I had never agreed with them, I knew that the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight took their birthright as a serious matter. For them, the Sacred Twenty-Eight wasn't trifled with, poked fun at, or Merlin forbid misunderstood. As a frequent guest of the Malfoy household, I was expected to know and understand all of the many rules of the group, though I wasn't and still am not a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

After dinner, Lucius presented me with a gift that only a Malfoy would give: a poisoned blade that could only be used once and would make the victim appear to have had a sudden heart attack. They would go on for weeks afterward, thinking that everything was fine, when suddenly they would die. Everyone else would assume that it was the heart attack that had done it, but you would know. Anyway, the gift was presented and then Draco and I were sent off to amuse the adults and play around with the Quidditch equipment.

Hundreds of feet in the air, Draco and I raced and looped, laughing and thoroughly enjoying ourselves until Lucius became bored and decided to join us as the beater. He chased us relentlessly, which at first I thought was a part of the game. One look at Draco's face told me otherwise. The boy was at least three shades paler than his naturally creamy skin tone, and his eyes widened into a fear that I recognized: the fear that meant a beating.

Narcissa rushed inside without so much as looking back, and I knew right then that we were on our own. I played the game as best I could, but though both Draco and I could play well against fellow students, Lucius is a full-grown man. Eventually, Draco was hit square in the face with the bat. I could hear the snap even from where I was, several yards away. Blood gushed out from Draco's nose and soon his face was more nose than anything else. Still, Lucius didn't stop. He laughed, turned, and continued to pursue his son. He hardly seemed to notice that I was there.

He chased the boy like a cat chases a mouse: toying with him, letting him think that he'd escaped before chasing him again. Finally, I'd had enough. I rode my broom straight in between them and declared that I needed to be heading home soon. Lucius agreed that we should be finished, and he began to lead us to the ground. As we landed, I saw a slight glint in his eye, a glint that I shrugged off. I was foolish. Quick as a flash, he swung the bat and hit me across the stomach, causing me to vomit my dinner. Just as quickly he struck me in the back and then again behind my knees, throwing me to the ground.

Though my mind was nearly numb from the thundering pain, I will never forget Lucius' interaction with his son.

"Father, no!" Draco screeched out in a whisper, tears filling his eyes.

Lucius turned, slowly and casually, his words forming delicately on his lips. "I teach your friend here to be a man, and you . . . you cry?"

Draco's eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them, the tears were shining from his eyes, but they didn't fall. He looked fierce; determined.

"No."

* * *

I . . . I don't know what to do. I, Blaise Zabini, master of all plans; commander of every situation . . . and I'm frozen, standing gaping like an idiot in my underwear, hair tangled and halfway flopping in my face. All I do is stand there staring at my former best friend, at the boy that's already suffered so much.

Suddenly I hear a retching sound that serves to break up the sobs. It's the vomit that does it. Draco Malfoy has never, ever puked in his entire life, a fact that he's always held in pride. My friend . . . my poor friend.

With renewed courage, I take a single step forward, ready to tell him it's okay and offer him my renewed friendship and explain everything, including my desperate plan and maybe even the fact that I linked his and Hermione's minds together. But that single step is the closest I ever get before a figure rushes into the bathroom, cornering Draco in his moment of weakness.

And who would it be that confronts Draco Malfoy at his lowest other than Harry Freaking Potter, the Boy Who Bloody Well Lived, who begins shouting at him. Draco looks up and I can see the tortured look in his eyes, the puffy blotches that surround the usually so clear grey. I can see dried vomit on his white dress shirt and fresh vomit on the corners of his mouth. His complexion rivals that of a ghost and he shakes horribly, but it doesn't take long for him to force a sneer on his face, though I know it's not a real one.

I want nothing more than to step in, to tell Harry that whatever he's about to accuse Draco of isn't true: that it's me who's the Death Eater. I wish so badly that I could save him right now, but I can't. It would ruin everything, I know, but the brokenness in his features makes my heart ache like it hasn't since the day my father left me.

Before I know it, Harry's shouting some spell I've never heard of, but when Draco collapses and blood starts seeping from thousands of cuts that suddenly appear out of nowhere, I figure it must be dark. Before Potter can hurt him worse, I slip from the shadows and wandlessly attempt to throw a stunning spell at him, surprised when it works, as I didn't go through my usual focusing bit. I see a professor rushing towards the scene out of the corner of my eye, but I don't catch who it is because I can't seem to rip my gaze from Draco's dying form. He must be dying because he's lying in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood, a pool that's starting to seep into Harry's clothes as he lies in his stunned form, unconscious from hitting his head on the door as he fell.

"Professor!" I holler. I don't care that I'm in my underwear anymore, I can't let Draco die. My goal is to save him, that's why I allowed myself to be abandoned by the entire Slytherin House. It's why I befriended Hermione (though I couldn't bring myself to regret that either way), and it's why I'm planning to go to Azkaban. I soon catch sight of greasy, black hair and a rather slow gait.

"PROFESSOR SNAPE!" I screech, this time at the literal top of my lungs. When his eye catches Draco, he whips his way to my side and rushes into the bathroom, swiftly muttering spells.

He only breaks away for one second to look over at me and whisper sharply, "Get out of here, Zabini, you shouldn't be seen!"

I feel myself nodding in agreement, and I rush away, no longer feeling the cold stone on my feet. I freeze and turn to where I can still see Snape's form hunched over the limp body.

"Will he be okay?" I dare to call out, hoping no one else can hear me. Snape doesn't call back but rather gives a firm nod, which I choose as the opportune time to leave. I rush quickly into the Room of Requirement, not bothering to put on any clothes over my underwear. I wish that I could be anywhere but here right now, but I can't be in Slytherin, and I'm beginning to seriously debate whether I can leave this room again at all or not. Everything is just compounding itself; I can feel the end marching on.

I gruffly slam the door behind me and slide onto the ground; my legs seeming to have decided that they no longer work and would rather be dead weight instead. I am exhausted despite the sleep I actually managed last night and it's all I can do to push a few matted curls from my eyes before sprawling onto the floor, trying to breath.

_Breathe_, I command my lungs, _breathe_! Still, I can't seem to catch my breath and am instead glued to the floor. I can't get the images out of my head: my best friend wrapped in the agony of all he's being asked to do and then his dying form, the slashes almost pulsating while his breaths grow more and more shallow.

I don't know how long I'll be laying here, but I don't see any movement in my near future. It's at this moment—at my most vulnerable—that the door swings open and I hear a sudden shriek. Still unable to move, I guess I'm at the mercy of whoever has found me.


	13. Ashes

**So I looked back at my story and I noticed that Blaise's character develops in a way that isn't really plausible, so I had this long mental debate about whether to fix it before moving on or not. Long story short, I will be revising most of the chapters and if you look back, you might notice that Chapter One has already been edited to my liking. However, I didn't want to completely stop writing the story. I already had this chapter written, so I'll just release it to you now.**

**Chapter Thirteen: ****_Ashes_**

"Blaise," a voice shrieks as the door to the Room of Requirements swings open.

"Blaise!"

I try to sit up, but I still can't even manage to wiggle a finger.

"Zabini!"

And now I'm too stiff even to protest the hated use of my last name. I moan a bit, and my potential attacker (who I for some reason can't manage to identify) steps closer so lightly that I can barely hear it.

"Blaise Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Zabini!"

My attacker suddenly decides to show themselves, leaning to stare into my face. It's Hermione, and though her voice seems stern, I can see the worry etched in her eyes whenever I catch a glimpse.

"Blaise are you okay?" She begins to shake my shoulders, though in my condition, it feels like a blob of jelly is smooshing against me, hitting one side and then the other.

"BLAISE!" I hear her breaths quicken in her panic, and I watch as she dart about the room as though looking for an answer.

"Blaise, tell me you're okay! You have to be okay," and then to herself, "I just wish I knew what happened."

There's no way I'll be able to explain anything to her because I still can't move, but eventually she seems to get the idea and sits down almost gracefully beside my head, gazing into my eyes as though searching for some sign of life.

I know she'll wait for me. It's just who she is. So, I close my eyes (Ha! I moved my eyes) and simply give in to the paralysis, telling myself that I refuse to worry about something that I'm telling myself is trivial. I don't expect it to work, but since it's working now, I guess the mind really can play tricks on the body.

I snap my eyes open, feeling the distinct brush of fingers through my hair. Hermione isn't even looking at me, though. It must be second nature for her to have to comfort people, what with all the trouble that Potter and Weasley seem to get into and the trauma that must follow, so I figure that it can't be all that weird that she's comforting me now.

Finally, I manage to pull myself up onto my elbows. Hermione jumps from the dream world she must have been in and pulls her hand away gently as though I'm a porcelain baby doll. She crosses the room and tosses a pair of jeans onto my lap along with a plain grey sweater.

"What's this for?" I manage to get out, though I'm rather disappointed by how frog-like I sound.

"Well, Blaise . . ." she considers slowly, as though unsure of herself, "You're kind of in your underwear."

Glancing down, I see the emerald underwear that I rather forgot I was wearing. Merlin, now she's seen me in my unders. I feel my face heat up and find myself looking anywhere but into her eyes.

"Th-th-those aren't m-mine." I stammer, weakly lifting my arm and shakily pointing at the clothing on my lap as I to avoid the underwear subject as best I can. And here I thought I was above being embarrassed.

"Oh, it's no trouble. I always have some extra clothing on hand for whoever might need it." Hermione Granger _would_ have extra clothing for students in need.

I look down to see that my entire body is literally shaking, and I glance over at her, the words I need to say next faltering at my lips.

"Her-her-her . . . Hermione?" I finally get out.

"Yes?"

"I . . ." I stop. Hopefully this will allow my lips time to function again. "I can't stand. I . . . n-need your help getting d-d-dressed." And there we have the single most embarrassing words ever uttered by Blaise Augustus Zabini. What a year this has been.

Hermione is about to giggle, I can sense it, but then she stifles it, presumably because she knows that I'll die if she laughs at me. I may not be Draco Malfoy, but I am a rather proud person, not used to requiring help with my daily life, and certainly not help getting dressed. She gets up and with great difficulty on both our parts, manages to get me upright, though I have to lean heavily on one of the walls. Then she orders me around and, like a toddler, I step into my trousers and lift my arms up one at a time to wiggle into my sweater. Then she leads me over to a couch near the roaring fireplace and I collapse, panting as though I've just run a marathon.

"What—if you don't mind my asking—happened?" she questions after a long and slightly awkward pause.

"I . . ." I hold up a finger and attempt to slow my breathing. "I saw Draco."

"He's been so terrible to you and I'm so sorry," she bursts out suddenly. My guess is that her link to him is making her feel personally responsible.

"But why have you been avoiding me?" she continues, "I've been looking and looking! And you look so . . ." Sympathy washes over her face.

"Awful?"

"Well, now that you mention it . . ."

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I really am. Theo was right. Somehow he almost always is. I shouldn't have allowed myself to become so isolated. It's done neither me nor the people around me any bloody good. I shouldn't have shut you out and I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. I should've tried—"

I put a finger to my lips. "Trying harder wouldn't have helped."

Hermione closes her eyes in a drawn-out blink before starting slowly, "You said you saw Draco. What did he do this time? And I really am sorry . . . about how he's been acting."

"Hermione, I'm a Slytherin. I got over it." I try to sound as masculine as I can, but I end up having a coughing fit instead. "It's not Draco in general, it's just that . . . he was crying. Like really crying, and I suddenly felt like reconciliation with him was going to happen (I swear I'm going soft). But then . . . Harry-Bloody-Potter came crashing in and actually very nearly killed him."

Hermione gasps. "Harry! I need to speak with him about this . . . he really should be more careful, less quick to jump to judgment—"

"NO!" I shout suddenly, surprising myself and feeling even weaker as I sink further into the cushions, "I mean . . . no, please don't. He can't know I was there . . . I stunned him. Anyway, Snape's got it all taken care of by now I'm sure, I just . . . he told me to leave and I . . . I just came here, you know, and suddenly I can't move, like I'm paralyzed or something."

Hermione nods her head, apparently unsurprised by this turn of events. How would she know that I was going to be paralyzed?

"Have you been taking that Draught again?" She narrows her eyes at the word "draught".

Suddenly I'm quite defensive, "What? How did you know I took one at all?"

She merely shakes her head. I doubt she takes too kindly to the use of potions as the remedy for everything, but there's no point in lying to her.

"Yeah . . ." I admit slowly, "I just use it to sleep though . . ." I shudder at the recollection of running like a madman through the halls recently, and add, "I won't be taking it again."

"Good. How much sleep have you gotten in the last three days without it?"

"Um . . . maybe three hours?"

"That probably explains the paralysis, then. I've never advised the use of such potions, as they generally tire the user so much that they're worse off than before, though I suppose you already knew that. What with the added stresses of your mission and then seeing Draco like that . . . and then you cast that spell like you did . . . it'd be enough to knock out a camel. I'm rather surprised that you managed to get here at all."

I'm not about to tell her that I can't seem to manage to get the potions to brew right with the rubbish ingredients and instructions here at Hogwarts and that therefore I wake up running around like a mental person. I also don't know how I'm going to regain my strength as I can hardly sleep a wink on my own these days. This could be bad . . . weakness could be the death of me at a time like this.

"You're worried, aren't you." Hermione stares at me appraisingly and slowly nods, agreeing with her own statement.

"I just . . . I can't sleep. Whenever I try it's just nightmare after nightmare, but without sleep I don't know how well my plan is going to turn out." Neither of us say a word, but she's probably thinking somewhere along the lines of what I'm thinking, though hopefully minus the expletives.

Suddenly she straightens and smiles a bit. "I've got it!"

"What." I have a feeling that I'm not going to like this.

"You'll just sleep here, and I'll stay next to you. If you wake up screaming or something, I can help calm you down."

"No." I say flatly. I do **not** want Hermione Granger to see me waking up from nightmares screaming like a little girl.

"Blaise . . ."

"NO."

"Blaise Zabini, do you want the entire wizarding world to die out? Because that's what will happen if your plan fails. And your plan **will **fail if you're so tired that you can't even think straight." She looks so fierce that I'm almost scared.

"Okay. I'll do it. We can give your idea a try."


	14. A World Apart

**So I looked back at my story and I noticed that Blaise's character develops in a way that isn't really plausible, so I had this long mental debate about whether to fix it before moving on or not. Long story short, I will be revising most of the chapters and if you look back, you might notice that Chapter One has already been edited to my liking. However, I didn't want to completely stop writing the story. I already had this chapter written, so I'll just release it to you now.**

**Chapter Thirteen: ****_Ashes_**

"Blaise," a voice shrieks as the door to the Room of Requirements swings open.

"Blaise!"

I try to sit up, but I still can't even manage to wiggle a finger.

"Zabini!"

And now I'm too stiff even to protest the hated use of my last name. I moan a bit, and my potential attacker (who I for some reason can't manage to identify) steps closer so lightly that I can barely hear it.

"Blaise Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Zabini!"

My attacker suddenly decides to show themselves, leaning to stare into my face. It's Hermione, and though her voice seems stern, I can see the worry etched in her eyes whenever I catch a glimpse.

"Blaise are you okay?" She begins to shake my shoulders, though in my condition, it feels like a blob of jelly is smooshing against me, hitting one side and then the other.

"BLAISE!" I hear her breaths quicken in her panic, and I watch as she dart about the room as though looking for an answer.

"Blaise, tell me you're okay! You have to be okay," and then to herself, "I just wish I knew what happened."

There's no way I'll be able to explain anything to her because I still can't move, but eventually she seems to get the idea and sits down almost gracefully beside my head, gazing into my eyes as though searching for some sign of life.

I know she'll wait for me. It's just who she is. So, I close my eyes (Ha! I moved my eyes) and simply give in to the paralysis, telling myself that I refuse to worry about something that I'm telling myself is trivial. I don't expect it to work, but since it's working now, I guess the mind really can play tricks on the body.

I snap my eyes open, feeling the distinct brush of fingers through my hair. Hermione isn't even looking at me, though. It must be second nature for her to have to comfort people, what with all the trouble that Potter and Weasley seem to get into and the trauma that must follow, so I figure that it can't be all that weird that she's comforting me now.

Finally, I manage to pull myself up onto my elbows. Hermione jumps from the dream world she must have been in and pulls her hand away gently as though I'm a porcelain baby doll. She crosses the room and tosses a pair of jeans onto my lap along with a plain grey sweater.

"What's this for?" I manage to get out, though I'm rather disappointed by how frog-like I sound.

"Well, Blaise . . ." she considers slowly, as though unsure of herself, "You're kind of in your underwear."

Glancing down, I see the emerald underwear that I rather forgot I was wearing. Merlin, now she's seen me in my unders. I feel my face heat up and find myself looking anywhere but into her eyes.

"Th-th-those aren't m-mine." I stammer, weakly lifting my arm and shakily pointing at the clothing on my lap as I to avoid the underwear subject as best I can. And here I thought I was above being embarrassed.

"Oh, it's no trouble. I always have some extra clothing on hand for whoever might need it." Hermione Granger _would_ have extra clothing for students in need.

I look down to see that my entire body is literally shaking, and I glance over at her, the words I need to say next faltering at my lips.

"Her-her-her . . . Hermione?" I finally get out.

"Yes?"

"I . . ." I stop. Hopefully this will allow my lips time to function again. "I can't stand. I . . . n-need your help getting d-d-dressed." And there we have the single most embarrassing words ever uttered by Blaise Augustus Zabini. What a year this has been.

Hermione is about to giggle, I can sense it, but then she stifles it, presumably because she knows that I'll die if she laughs at me. I may not be Draco Malfoy, but I am a rather proud person, not used to requiring help with my daily life, and certainly not help getting dressed. She gets up and with great difficulty on both our parts, manages to get me upright, though I have to lean heavily on one of the walls. Then she orders me around and, like a toddler, I step into my trousers and lift my arms up one at a time to wiggle into my sweater. Then she leads me over to a couch near the roaring fireplace and I collapse, panting as though I've just run a marathon.

"What—if you don't mind my asking—happened?" she questions after a long and slightly awkward pause.

"I . . ." I hold up a finger and attempt to slow my breathing. "I saw Draco."

"He's been so terrible to you and I'm so sorry," she bursts out suddenly. My guess is that her link to him is making her feel personally responsible.

"But why have you been avoiding me?" she continues, "I've been looking and looking! And you look so . . ." Sympathy washes over her face.

"Awful?"

"Well, now that you mention it . . ."

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I really am. Theo was right. Somehow he almost always is. I shouldn't have allowed myself to become so isolated. It's done neither me nor the people around me any bloody good. I shouldn't have shut you out and I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. I should've tried—"

I put a finger to my lips. "Trying harder wouldn't have helped."

Hermione closes her eyes in a drawn-out blink before starting slowly, "You said you saw Draco. What did he do this time? And I really am sorry . . . about how he's been acting."

"Hermione, I'm a Slytherin. I got over it." I try to sound as masculine as I can, but I end up having a coughing fit instead. "It's not Draco in general, it's just that . . . he was crying. Like really crying, and I suddenly felt like reconciliation with him was going to happen (I swear I'm going soft). But then . . . Harry-Bloody-Potter came crashing in and actually very nearly killed him."

Hermione gasps. "Harry! I need to speak with him about this . . . he really should be more careful, less quick to jump to judgment—"

"NO!" I shout suddenly, surprising myself and feeling even weaker as I sink further into the cushions, "I mean . . . no, please don't. He can't know I was there . . . I stunned him. Anyway, Snape's got it all taken care of by now I'm sure, I just . . . he told me to leave and I . . . I just came here, you know, and suddenly I can't move, like I'm paralyzed or something."

Hermione nods her head, apparently unsurprised by this turn of events. How would she know that I was going to be paralyzed?

"Have you been taking that Draught again?" She narrows her eyes at the word "draught".

Suddenly I'm quite defensive, "What? How did you know I took one at all?"

She merely shakes her head. I doubt she takes too kindly to the use of potions as the remedy for everything, but there's no point in lying to her.

"Yeah . . ." I admit slowly, "I just use it to sleep though . . ." I shudder at the recollection of running like a madman through the halls recently, and add, "I won't be taking it again."

"Good. How much sleep have you gotten in the last three days without it?"

"Um . . . maybe three hours?"

"That probably explains the paralysis, then. I've never advised the use of such potions, as they generally tire the user so much that they're worse off than before, though I suppose you already knew that. What with the added stresses of your mission and then seeing Draco like that . . . and then you cast that spell like you did . . . it'd be enough to knock out a camel. I'm rather surprised that you managed to get here at all."

I'm not about to tell her that I can't seem to manage to get the potions to brew right with the rubbish ingredients and instructions here at Hogwarts and that therefore I wake up running around like a mental person. I also don't know how I'm going to regain my strength as I can hardly sleep a wink on my own these days. This could be bad . . . weakness could be the death of me at a time like this.

"You're worried, aren't you." Hermione stares at me appraisingly and slowly nods, agreeing with her own statement.

"I just . . . I can't sleep. Whenever I try it's just nightmare after nightmare, but without sleep I don't know how well my plan is going to turn out." Neither of us say a word, but she's probably thinking somewhere along the lines of what I'm thinking, though hopefully minus the expletives.

Suddenly she straightens and smiles a bit. "I've got it!"

"What." I have a feeling that I'm not going to like this.

"You'll just sleep here, and I'll stay next to you. If you wake up screaming or something, I can help calm you down."

"No." I say flatly. I do **not** want Hermione Granger to see me waking up from nightmares screaming like a little girl.

"Blaise . . ."

"NO."

"Blaise Zabini, do you want the entire wizarding world to die out? Because that's what will happen if your plan fails. And your plan **will **fail if you're so tired that you can't even think straight." She looks so fierce that I'm almost scared.

"Okay. I'll do it. We can give your idea a try."


	15. Beginnings

**Chapter Fifteen: ****_Beginnings_**

"Blaise, I'm worried." Hermione looks into my eyes pleadingly, as though I can somehow fix everything.

"Why are you telling me this? I'm worried, you're worried, everyone is worried. Anyone who isn't worried is either clueless or a prat."

I turn my face from hers, hopefully shielding the mounting terror that I've been feeling slowly build up ever since I concocted this stupid plan. Another stupid black curl falls into my face and I brush it away, blinking my eyes furiously from the slight sting the hair left.

"Are you . . . crying?" Hermione asks disbelievingly.

"No, It's just my stupid . . . hair." I push it furiously away from my forehead which only causes it to flop onto it again in a weird side swish.

"Why don't you just get rid of it?"

"Excuse me?" I face her and perform a famous Slytherin eyebrow raise, even going so far as to tilt my head in dramatic disbelief.

"No, not shave it off entirely. Goodness, Blaise, I meant why not cut it short? It would stop falling in your face and would probably be more convenient in the coming days." Ah, Hermione . . . always the factual one.

"Okay." I simply say, conjuring a pair of scissors and handing them to her. She sits dumbfounded and tries to sputter out something, but I continue as nonchalantly as though I were asking her to write her own name.

"You do it. I trust you not to make me look like a horrid freak, and if you do, I'll look more like a Death Eater anyway and probably get more publicity when I turn myself in."

I sit perfectly still and allow her to have at my hair, curls falling onto the floor in clumps. I sincerely wonder why I never thought of this before. My mother always did love my stupid curls, saying that I got my "most beautiful feature" from her. Her hair actually is the exact opposite—stiff as a light post—so I've always thought she was delusional, but it still would've gotten her attention and possibly the first real punishment in the last nine years. Then again, probably not, and I'm also kind of partial to my curls, which is why I've never cut them anyway. They remind me that I am my own person, and that I have a chance to get away from mummy dearest.

Hermione hands me a mirror, and I almost gasp at the sight. I'm pretty sure that I look like a serial killer, but then I remember that it's kind of the vibe I'm going for anyway, so it's not too terrible. I shrug my shoulders.

"Not bad, Hermione. I look like I belong to the Dark Lord now." We both make eye contact for a moment and burst out laughing. I tumble onto the floor from the heaving of my chest, something I haven't done in a while. When I sober up, I look at Hermione gravely.

"Tonight's the night, isn't it?" she asks me, her voice shaking a bit. I'm surprised that she doesn't already know, what with being inside Draco's head and all, but maybe she's just a really good actress. Heaven knows I'm not one, which is actually going to really suck these next few days.

I figure that tonight's the night when it all starts because Draco's been disappearing lately, and every time he returns, he looks frustrated or simply despairing, but this morning he looked belated, overjoyed, maybe even relieved. It has to be tonight, but it's already late in the day, so I realize that these next few hours are the last hours of this fantasy where maybe everything will work out okay.

"Yeah . . . but let's not talk about it. I want these next few hours to be, I don't know, maybe . . . normal. What do you usually do with your friends?"

"Blaise," Hermione smacks me lightly, "you are my friend. Anyways I've been thinking that it might be fun to play Truth or Dare, or in this case Truth or Truth, but I never have anyone to play it with. Do you want to play it now?" She has such a bright smile on her face that the dark cloud from moments ago are nearly gone. I can't say no to that.

"Sure, you go first."

"Favourite color."

"Easy, blue."

"Why?"

I laugh, "It's my turn to ask one! How about . . . what's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done in your entire life?"

"Well . . ." Hermione blushes scarlet.

_This has to be good_, I think to myself with a smirk.

"There was this one time," she continues, "I had brewed a Polyjuice potion, actually. It was second year and the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and we thought . . ." she starts laughing.

"What?" I smile, almost laughing at whatever funny thing is sure to come.

"We thought that . . . that Draco Malfoy was the, the Heir of Slytherin."

I laugh out loud. Draco Malfoy . . . Heir of Slytherin? I contain myself after a moment and look to her, hoping for further explanation.

"So . . . so I brewed a Polyjuice potion, and Harry and Ron were supposed to be Crabb and Goyle, and I was supposed to be, well, you. But somehow, my potion got mixed up and I turned into a cat. A cat, Blaise! And I couldn't undo it, so I waited in the bathroom until it went away. Oh, it was the most horrible thing, and Harry and Ron don't know to this day. And it better stay that way . . ." she pokes a finger on my chest in mocking seriousness.

"Oh, you know that I won't tell Potter or Weasley."

"Okay my turn, what about you? What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"

"Well," I sigh, feeling myself redden, "I was . . . well okay, this was just this last summer. My mother's work friends came to our house and I was expected to be perfection and therefore not show up, but I had no idea that they were even coming, or that they were going to be taking a tour of the mansion that included my bedroom. So, I came out from the shower, and I wasn't dressed . . . at all, as in stark naked.

"I walked into my room to find a good dozen middle-aged witches . . . staring at me and my . . . well, my everything. And to make matters worse, I shoved on the nearest thing to me, and it turned out to be my mother's lacey thong . . . I think she and her man friend must have been sleeping in there. But there I was, standing in my bedroom wet and in nothing more than a pink, lacey thong . . . horrifying, really, and then one of the witches took a picture, and I had to chase her around the house in the thing until I finally managed to snag the camera. Then I modified everyone's memories—including my mother's—and promptly switched bedrooms. I haven't stepped foot in my old bedroom since."

Hermione can't hold back from this one, and she grins widely and begins to chuckle, a chuckle which quickly turns to a laugh, a throaty kind of gargled laugh, the kind of laugh I'd never expect to come out of her tiny form. She sounds like a crow, cawing desperately in a fight over a piece of popcorn or something.

I can't help it, I'm laughing too. My laugh is rather light, always has been, but the soft tickle of my laughter is usually overlooked by the fact that when I laugh, it's a right fit of laughter. I can feel the tears streaming down my face and trickling onto my chin, giving me a watery beard. Then I heave and hold my chest, feeling the edgy burn as though I'd just chugged firewhiskey, a drink that I can't say I enjoy, but a classic Slytherin party drink nonetheless. My chest starts to hurt a bit, and I try to slow myself down before I bruise a rib from all the laughing (something I've actually done before). I suddenly stop when I don't hear any more of the gargled laughter. Hermione is staring down at me with a grin on her face.

"You wear a women's thong and you laugh like a woman too!" she exclaims, a silent tear of mirth rolling down her currently dry face.

"Hey now, let's not be rude!" I try to be stern, but it's rather impossible when you're staring into that grin. Hermione conjures a cloth and then hands it to me. I wipe at the tears on my face before tossing it back at her.

"I don't want that!" she shouts, jumping out of the way. I pink up the cloth and charge towards her, but she's quick and she runs away from me, laughing all the while. She darts herself into a corner, and I know now's my chance. I rush as quickly as I can and slam into her, pushing her against a couch before withdrawing, panting from the effort to chase her.

"You're quick!" I exclaim between breaths.

"And you're fat!" Hermione winks at me, and I begin to laugh again. I manage to smolder one of my terrible smolders and close my eyes halfway.

"Always" I mouth, pretending to toss some hair over my shoulder. I won't be doing any of the "sexy" pictures that I pretended to do earlier this year with Draco, but I still like to see her smiling in what little time we have left to actually be happy.

As though the thought itself were a bad omen, Hermione's face suddenly stiffens. Her eyes dart back and forth warily, and she grabs my upper arm.

"Blaise . . ." she whispers in a short breath, "It's begun."

I sigh, fully aware that she means it's time for me to face my fate and for her to do the same. I look into her eyes for what I figure will be the last time for a long while.

"Godspeed, Hermione." I whisper, pulling her into a brief hug, a hug which she surprisingly returns.

"Be careful, Blaise." She says this at her normal tone, and then she rushes away, off to Gryffindor tower to warn the students of the danger. I swiftly cross the room and stuff a few potions into my robes before following her out the door, rushing to the Astronomy tower. My feet feel heavy and the distance has never seemed so long before, but I know what I have to do; and I therefore do not falter.

Up the stairs I run, trying to beat Draco to the spot I know that they'll all be meeting. I have to act fast! When I reach the top of the stairs and thrust the doors open, I see Dumbledore sitting on a small cot, panting heavily. He looks surprised to see me, and even more surprised to see the Dark Mark on my forearm that I've purposefully uncovered for this meeting and for the sake of the other Death Eaters. Dumbledore opens his mouth to say something, but I know there simply isn't time.

**So these next several chapters are really defining moments for Blaise, and I'm super excited that I get to start sharing them with you. I guess we'll have to wait and see if Blaise is the genius he thinks he is.**

**If you liked the chapters so far or have any suggestions to make it better, please leave a review. I'd love to hear from you guys.**


	16. Ripples

**This Chapter is huge and it's also probably some of my best work behind the "The Right Hand", which will be posted sometime next week.**

**Chapter Sixteen: ****_Ripples_**

"You need to trust me, and you need to drink this." I thrust the Draught of Living Death into Dumbledore's hand, uncorking it when he makes no move to do so himself. The man seems oddly weak and even unstable.

"Blaise . . ." he mutters so low that I have to lean towards him to hear, "Don't surround yourself with darkness—"

"—Don't get me started," I cut him off, "Trust me, I'm here to save you."

"Blaise . . . it's my time, son. You need to let me go." Dumbledore sighs and smiles halfheartedly as though he decided this months ago.

"No, it's not you stupid old bat!" Dumbledore jumps at such names, but I'm not in the mood to care. Of the many things I am, patient isn't one of them.

"You think you can boss everyone around and use them like pawns on your giant game of chess, but you can't. This war will be lost if you keep everyone in the dark. Hell, Harry doesn't even know about the Horcruxes; or if he does, it's not nearly enough to end this war quickly. The war must end quickly, otherwise you waste lives. And you know all about wasted lives, Professor.

"You think that you can somehow redeem yourself from the death of Ariana, but you can't: not like this! This will only lead to a thousand more deaths: a thousand more Arianas. This scheme of yours is ridiculous and shows you for what you must truly be if you think that this is the best way to save the world: praise-hungry. But you know what, it's not time for people to start writing biographies now! You have to live, sir. Living is how you will redeem yourself from Ariana's death, not dying like a martyr and certainly not by making killers of conflicted boys."

Dumbledore's eyes widen, clearly unaware that I knew any of this. He thought that he had tied every loose end, but in truth there's always a loose end somewhere.

"How . . ." he gets out before I cut him off again.

"You didn't think I knew about any of that, did you?" I demand with an irritable sneer. "Well, there's actually a lot that you don't know about me, but we don't have time for that now. For once in your life I need you to stop playing chess and DRINK THE BLOODY POTION!"

Dumbledore falters, but he doesn't open his mouth to retort. It's like he's part of a different world for a moment, and when he rejoins mine everything is different. He nods slowly, seeming to have resolved an issue that's likely haunted him for years. For him playing these games has always been necessary, but I've long suspected that it's also been a cover: a cover to hide everything that he's done and a way to redeem himself.

"What is it?" he suddenly asks, some of his usual Dumbledore demeanor returning: he sounds like he's trying to explain to a first-year that stealing is wrong.

"I'm not a bloody child, Professor, and I very clearly know what I'm doing, so just trust me! I don't have time to explain myself, and I would think that you of all people would understand not telling someone nearly enough information and yet expecting them to blindly follow you. It shouldn't be that surprising, and I would think that since you apply the method so often yourself, you would be willing to give it a try! I will not ask again. Drink. The. Bloody. Potion."

My final words are unnecessary, however, because I can see in his eyes that he's already decided to do this. He gulps down vial, and just in the nick of time. I can hear pounding on the stone steps, the sound of several Death Eaters coming all at once. I nod to Dumbledore and then swiftly hide myself in the shadows beside the door and behind a rather random tapestry that I placed here earlier in the year for this expressed purpose. I'm not leaving anything to chance if I can help it.

The door explodes open, and in march the Death Eaters. They always have had a flare for the theatric. Perhaps that's why I've always had a knack at blending in with them. They cackle threateningly as the entire group floods the area, wands swiftly pointed on Dumbledore.

At the front of the pack walks none other than Draco Malfoy. He looks so broken that my heart goes out to him. His always-rigid mask seems to have slipped, and I can see a look of sorrow, regret, and confusion deep in his eyes. I almost want to kill him right now, because I know that would be easier than all that he's about to be put through.

I know that he'll be tortured for failing to complete this task and that he'll be holed up at Malfoy Manor for probably the rest of the war, constantly forced to watch the murder and torture of countless Muggles, Muggleborns, and Blood Traitors. I know that it will break him inside, and I don't know if anything will be able to save him from that or if he'll ever be the same again. But I guess I don't know that I'll ever be the same after this either.

Draco is followed by the Carrow siblings and Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf that I put under the Cruciatus when I first became a Death Eater. I'm going to need that same kind of hatred that I used then today, the kind that makes everyone know that you mean it, that you want them dead.

"It's okay Draco," Dumbledore says, his words slurring only slightly as the potion begins to take effect. Draco holds out his wand, his hand shaking and his eyes filling with tears.

_It's okay Draco_, I think, _I'm going to take care of this for you_.

"No!" Draco shouts out. "I have to do this; you need to die." His voice sounds venomous, but it's the usual tone that he adopts when someone sees him crying, the same tone he used with Harry the last time I saw him. I've been avoiding him partially to avoid seeing that pain.

"You're not . . . you're not one of them." Dumbledore begins to tip dangerously to one side. It's almost time.

"I am!" Draco shouts, gruffly pulling his left sleeve up before pointing his wand at the Headmaster again.

And now is my cue. I slip from my hiding spot and pretend to enter through the door. I stalk confidently past everyone, halting only when I reach Draco and his shaking arm.

"Am I too late?" I ask, turning my head to sweep the room a bit more dramatically than necessary, but Draco's too busy to notice. "I'm sorry, my invitation must have been lost in the mail. That stupid owl of yours always was terrible, Malfoy." I sneer pointedly at him. As a Death Eater, I have to pretend to hate all the other Death Eaters, because in this game, everyone is at odds and all that any of the Death Eaters want is to be at the right hand of the Dark Lord.

"Zabini!" Draco breathes sharply, about to unleash a year's worth of irritation and bottled up hurt.

I cut him off first. "One moment, please." I look over at Dumbledore, a few seconds I'd guess from collapsing. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" I shout, the anger resonating in my voice as I hit directly behind the Professor, the portrait that I actually hit falling and knocking into his head, hopefully unviewable in the blinding green flash. The Draught of Living Death will do the rest. The rush from the curse is tremendous, and it's all I can do not to fall over. I must be strong now, strong and nearly euphoric for the "death" of the Dark Lord's biggest obstacle.

Draco gapes at me, all the fear in his eyes suddenly pointing at me, the person who claimed to be his best friend: a murderer. I know I'm not really a murderer, but I rather feel like one under his terrified gaze. He's looking at me like I'm something other, some great evil—like I'm inhuman. He shakes his head in a few jerks and as the mask is repositioned, a triumphant smirk pulls at all his features. Draco Malfoy never ceases to amaze. Still, that real look, the look that told me what he's feeling: I can feel it burning a hole through me, a hole that will never shrink unless we both survive this blasted war and I somehow manage to get him to listen to me.

Around me the other Death Eaters cheer, but I pay them no mind. I can barely hear them through the rush of my heartbeat and I follow blindly to wherever we're headed next. I notice that Severus Snape is with us, and for a brief moment I wonder why, but I shove that thought away. I have much greater weights to carry. The whole pack leaves the Astronomy tower and begins to cast curses left and right, laughing as though they are children who have just received a coveted present that mum has sworn they can't afford this year. I need to keep my cover, so I join them, though this laughter doesn't make me cheerful. It's simply a slight resonating feeling in my chest, leaving me rather empty inside. All I have now is the rest of my mission and then I'll be like a wilted flower or an empty box.

Eventually we make it to the Great Hall and I'm vaguely aware of the doors as they swing open to reveal the night sky. About half of the Death Eaters around me begin to skip like they've never been outside before, the other half still shrieking with delight. Bellatrix Lestrange even begins an eerie song, though I'm not entirely sure when it was that she joined us.

_Snap out of it_! I yell at myself. _You are overjoyed. OVERJOYED_! _Dumbledore is dead and that is supposed to make you happy so snap the hell out of it and act like you're thrilled_! I nearly slap my own face but am spared the trouble.

I spit blood out of my mouth onto my hand and glance up directly into the face of none other than Harry Potter, his fist still taut from the blow he just landed.

"YOU KILLED HIM!" he shouts in my face as I shove him to the ground in surprise. A dozen hexes hit him in an instant, a greedy look in half the Death Eater's eyes before Snape shouts at them all and tells them that Potter belongs to the Dark Lord and is his alone to kill. At this they all begin to trot along again, but for some reason I freeze, unable to leave this square of grass.

"YOU WERE A STUDENT OF HIS! HE TAUGHT YOU EVERYTHING, AND YOU KILLED HIM!" Harry doesn't even bother trying to hurt me this time, but I can see the pain written on every centimeter of his face. I always thought that he rather loved Dumbledore, but I'm certain now. Tears stream down his reddened face and in his green eyes ripple with this utter confusion, like a dog whose kind-hearted master struck him. I feel sorry for him, I really do. This war sucks, but most of all for him. Harry Potter has no father figure to look up to, and I noticed already how much he was hurting after the death of Sirius Black, probably the only chance at a happy family that he had even the slightest chance at.

But now, now the great and powerful Dumbledore is dead . . . well, not actually, but for all intents and purposes he is. I almost want to apologize to Harry, to explain the truth, to tell him it's going to be okay, for in his eyes I see my own, the same sorrow and confusion . . . the same look of doubt and wondering if there wasn't anything that he could have done to prevent his father figure from dying, or in my case walking out on my life. But instead of an explanation or expression of understanding, I turn on my heel and follow after the others, cackling as if I can't feel a thing while he sits there, crying his eyes out and probably wondering if anything will ever be okay again.


	17. The Right Hand

**Chapter Seventeen: ****_The Right Hand_**

"Blaise Zabini." My name sounds so foreign rolling off that tongue. I'm pretty sure that the devil himself would sound friendlier than the Dark Lord, even though right now he's smiling. I think that he's even more terrifying now, with the grin that seems so out of place on his snake-like features and skin the color of lifeless things. He sets a cloaked limb lightly on my shoulder and my hair very nearly stands on end. I know that I've sworn I'm not afraid of him, and that's all good and well, but I find it's much easier to be brave from a distance.

I very slowly swallow the spit that threatens to drown me and clamp my iron will upon my legs, bidding them to stop trembling as I feel a fleshy substance twist up them, a few of the scales brushing the bare skin of my ankles. I hear the faint hissing of the Dark Lord's snake, Nagini, but I can't look down and show weakness through fear of the unknown. I am in the Dark Lord's presence which for now that means safety, for I am most likely one of the most wanted individuals by the Ministry of Magic right now, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

"My Lord." I reply as soon as I trust that my words will sound unaffected by fear. Thankfully they sound exactly as I hoped they would.

"You have done well, my faithful one." It's funny how unnerving his voice is. It sounds silky smooth but is rather like venom. From the outside it seems perfectly harmless, just another liquid . . . but one teeny, tiny prick, and BAM! you're as dead as you could possibly get. This is how the Dark Lord's voice is. Though he's pleased with me now, it could all change all so easily and when my plan takes the next step, it will. I'll be running to a new enemy's enemy, though this time the "friendship" won't be so friendly.

"I am pleased that my Lord is pleased." I say, not doing too badly on the "sound brave" front if I do say so myself.

"I do believe that my former distrust of you was rather misplaced," he observes, "Perhaps I ought to give Draco Malfoy here such a second chance as you have afforded yourself."

I refuse to move. I figure that any action on my part will only serve to seal whatever fate the Dark Lord has planned for him, as well as sign away my soul and probably send me to a grave faster than I could possibly save Dumbledore. The Dark Lord nods at this lack of motion, seeming pleased that I know better.

"Then again, perhaps Nagini here would prefer a treat tonight . . . what do you say we do, Blaise?"

I look over at Draco casually, as though he's not worth the effort to glance at him. He looks horrid, really. He's sweating so hard that his hair is soaked, and his head is hung, causing his locks to follow suite and cover most of his face. Between the chunks of it, I can see dark circles at the base of his eyes and several streaks of dirt on his face as well as his clothing: a slightly torn Hogwarts uniform, a loose green tie, and a pair of black trousers. He's also shaking very slightly, just enough to let me know that he thinks he's going to die.

"I rather wonder if the half-wit would better serve the cause alive rather than dead. Of course, be cannot be fully trusted not to fail on his own, but with the proper guidance, perhaps something could be made of him." I phrase my words carefully, omitting any language that sounds like I'm telling him what to do or sounds like I'm trying too hard to seem devoted to the Dark Lord's cause.

The Dark Lord nods at this, seeming to have already thought of such a plan. "I am obliged to agree with you, Blaise. Very well, he shall be properly punished and then sent to his room under the guard of Fenrir Greyback." He says all this in a tone that sounds like he's telling me that he would like me to add lettuce to the grocery list, as though it isn't remotely strange.

"My Lord—" Fenrir begins to protest, but the Dark Lord sends him a glare so icy that the werewolf instantly looks away. Even the greatest of the Death Eaters fear their master.

"As a show of my favour, I will allow you the honors, Blaise." Of course, pretending that the werewolf hadn't spoken, the Dark Lord looks from Draco to me. All I can see is the sentence in Azkaban going up, an image accompanied by a cold shudder that I barely contain.

_So much for a life of my own_, I think for a split second before finishing the thought with, _You bloody idiot, this is what you signed up for the instant you started brewing the Draught of Living Death_.

"CRUCIO!" I shout. I try to picture my father's face instead of Draco's in front of me, but it's rather difficult to do whilst he screams, and I have a hard time pretending to enjoy this. Draco twists around an invisible point and shrieks like I've never heard him scream before. I relent after a few minutes, but I can tell from the laughter around me that it's going to take a lot more for them to become bored. I can't risk any of them having more powerful curses than I do, or—worse—decide to kill him after all.

"CRUCIO!" I shout again, less rage to my voice and what little amusement I can force in its stead. The screams become a fading moan and I know that he can't take much more of this.

_One more time ought to give them enough entertainment_, I think as I relent.

"CRUCIO!" I shout once more, putting a fifth Cruciatus Curse on my record. When I finally relent for the last time, Draco simply collapses onto the floor and Fenrir drags him away by the shoulder, probably off to toss him like a rag doll into his room. I turn and walk away to the room I've been assigned to, the room that I realize upon entrance used to be Lucius and Narcissa's master suite. I practically throw myself onto the bed and try to get a few precious hours of sleep.

* * *

"Blaisey Waisey!" A voice calls out my name.

It feels like I've only laid here for a moment, but I guess it must have been a while. I've been wondering about Draco, Hermione, and Theo some, but mostly I've been thinking about myself. I wish I weren't such a selfish person sometimes, but I can't seem to stop it. These thoughts fade as the voice cries out a second time. I stagger out of bed, catching myself on the doorframe at the end of the massive room. The room is kind of creepy, really, but before now I hadn't thought to notice. In fact, I haven't even changed my clothes since yesterday morning, assuming I slept through most of the night like I think I did. I might not have though; I never really have slept well.

"What?" I holler, opening the door but otherwise not bothering to move from my position against the ebony doorpost.

"The Dark Lord has left without you. What have you to say about that?" I recognize the voice this time, the voice whose owner teeters on the edge of insanity: Bellatrix Lestrange. She probably lost her mind from all those years in Azkaban, something that forces me to gulp down my fear. In this house, fear doesn't exist, except that it does in great quantity. I would guess that most of the fear on the planet is concentrated right here in Malfoy Manor at this moment. No, it isn't that fear isn't here, it's just that everyone pretends that it isn't. In fact, your life quite likely depends on it.

"Oh Bella . . . you always were a bit . . . touched," Her childhood pet name along with a near insult ought to annoy her sufficiently. "Do you really think that I desire to be with him every moment, that I _need _his presence? _Some_ of us are capable of making our Lord proud without requiring that he peer over our shoulder or hold our hand."

"Hmph!" She's in front of me now, evidently having followed my voice to this spot. She looks up and down my figure, her eyes catching at the choppy shortness of my hair, the darkish blotches under my already dark eyes, and the wrinkled creases covering my dirty robes. She smiles faintly.

"So this is the boy who's done it all," she remarks, her voice taut with false pity, "The Dark Lord's favourite, I hear."

"What of it?" I point my best impression of a Malfoy glare at her, which is probably not impressing her, but hopefully holding my own. I may be leaving tomorrow, but I can't have a suspicious Death Eater follow me and stop me before I make it to Azkaban, the one place that no Death Eater would dare follow, the one place that scares them all even more than the Dark Lord himself.

"I was just thinking," she continues, "that as your new _friend_, I find it disconcerting that you don't seem the least bit concerned about . . . slipping up?"

"And should I? Should I be concerned about, how did you put it . . . 'slipping up'. No need to worry, my dear Bella," I spit out her name in near disgust, "Slipping up is for failures and disgraces . . . something you might be familiar with, with a family of traitors and failures. Why, your dear sister comes to mind."

"Narcissa and I are sisters no longer," Bellatrix growls, a glint of growing hatred in her dark eyes, "Unless she should prove herself to my Lord, she is dead."

"And yet you seem to be spending an awful lot of your time looking after her, her and your nephew, Draco." I smile wickedly.

Bellatrix scoffs, "The boy is far worse than his mother. Maybe the Dark Lord will wonder why it is that he's your best friend . . ." She smiles at me a little too widely to be believable.

"Funny, I don't recall being friends with that failure filth. I must admit, though, that I could get used to the thrill of an Unforgivable." Ugh, why did I have to change the subject so awkwardly?

Nevertheless, Bellatrix takes the bait willingly, "Never gets old, boy. Never." With a spin on the ball of her foot, she walks away, her hair looking even worse in the back than in the front. I have to follow, partly because Death Eaters aren't idle creatures, but mostly because I want to see how Draco's doing.

In the dining room, Draco sits alone. He looks up for a brief moment, stiffening when he notices me, his eyes bouncing between my left forearm where my sleeve covers my Dark Mark and my face, which he seems disgusted by. I try my very best to portray that I don't mean any of this and that I still am his best friend, that I'm not a murderer, and that cursing him was me trying to be merciful, but I know that I'm failing. Besides the fact that Draco and I have barely spoken all year, he saw me kill Dumbledore. That's enough to forever condemn me in his eyes. I don't think I've ever wanted so badly to be faking "sexy" pictures with him and blowing kisses at Harry Potter.

I brush past him and his judgmental stare and head into the kitchen, where I can hear the majority of the Death Eaters laughing and chattering before they set off for the day. I'm guessing that they don't usually talk, but Dumbledore "died" so I guess today would be an exception to the rule. Once I'm in the doorway, I clear my throat as loudly as I can, pushing a haughty look across my face.

"I'm leaving, and I'll be back this evening, for anyone who was counting on me being here. I thought I'd pay mummy dearest a visit, show her what's become of her son. You might not be seeing much more of her again, or any of her, for that matter." I laugh, pretending that this was all one big joke, though it's now understood that I will be going to my mothers and she probably will die. Without another word, I disapparate on the spot.


	18. The Bravest You Can Be

**Fair warning, the story is near completion. I think there's going to be like 2 more chapters. Anyway, this chapter is monumental if there's ever going to be a turning point in Blaise's life, so I hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter Eighteen: ****_The Bravest You Can Be_**

I told myself that I wouldn't come back here ; that I would never lay eyes on my childhood home again. I thought that I'd never take another step onto the silky obsidian path. I relished the thought of never setting eyes on the purplish roses and their poisoned scent. I guess I should've known that I wouldn't keep my promise—closure is simply too tantalizing.

As I stand outside the doorway with my wand drawn and the full uniform of a Death Eater covering nearly all of me, I wonder what I should say. I told Hermione that I would try to forgive them and maybe I will. Today is not that day. Today is the day that I shove everything in my mother's face and hold her accountable for it: for the heartbroken boy that she continued to hurt.

She won't be proud. It always was impossible to make her proud, anyway. She'll probably be scared, actually. The last time she saw me I threw the Cruciatus Curse at her, and she felt all of the agonized pain that had building inside of me for so long. She always thought that I was too weak for such things. Now she'll have heard about Dumbledore and how I killed him in cold blood. She will think that I killed Dumbledore because that is what I'll tell her.

_Guess what_, I imagine myself telling her, _you raised a bit of a monster_.

Of course, I would never kill my mother, even though I hate her most of the time; even though a part of me wants her gone forever. I won't kill. I won't be like her. I won't use the Unforgivables unless I truly have no other choice.

Taking a deep breath, I force in the door with my magic, sending it crashing into the floor and splintering the boards beneath it. Theatrics and face value are an essential part of being a Death Eater, and I won't be letting up my character anytime soon. I march into the main hallway of the house, purposefully swishing my arms to allow the dark and heavy fabric to billow behind me. I slam house elves into the walls with my wand as I pass them, silently apologizing to each one. I march without stopping through the door at the end of the hall.

This is my mother's personal drawing room, and it screams "conceit" with its vaulted ceiling, giant windows, and a wall full of bookcases. The room is almost entirely walnut, with large paintings of her face covering most of what isn't already covered by books. The floor is decorated with a great Persian rug and on it rest several seats forming an island of sorts in the room's center. On the edge of the room opposite the bookcases rests a massive fireplace of black marble, upon the mantle of which rests framed copies of every newspaper article that's ever mentioned her. This is without a doubt my least favorite room in the house.

I find my mother stretched out gracefully on one of the couches, a spool of yarn on the floor below her and a pair of knitting needles in her hands. Without even looking up, she addresses me.

"Blaise _Zabini_." She says the words with a silky tone, knowing that I hate my last name.

"Mother." I acknowledge her without letting my anger show.

"What brings you home?"

I ignore her, instead saying, "You know you raised a bit of a monster."

She laughs lightly, "I always guessed that I had."

"I should kill you."

"You should," she agrees, "Why don't you?"

I open my lips to respond, but suddenly all this theatric banter seems pointless. I sigh and pull the mask off my face, tossing it against the wall. I flop into the chair adjacent to her. Disregarding my recently clean and pressed robes, I lean my head against one arm of the chair and flop my legs over the other arm.

To her credit, mother wordlessly snaps her fingers three times, and a house elf appears, refusing to look at me while she serves us tea and lemon cookies, a Zabini house specialty. Mother sets down her knitting and picks up her cup to take a sip, staring levelly at me until I take a sip of mine. Then I take one of the cookies and bite into it slowly, thinking about how this will probably be my last cookie for a very long time. I shouldn't be thinking that way, but I can't seem to stop it.

Silence drags on as we both sip our tea and eat our cookies. It continues to linger after the house elf has taken our plates and it lives on as mother puts away her knitting.

"Why did you do it?" I finally ask. I've always wanted to know the answer to my question. I've always wanted to know why I was never good enough, but I've always been too scared. I guess that a small part of me hoped that she really did love me. Either way, today is not the day for fear.

"Why did I do what?" Mother asks this with her gaze on the fireplace.

"Mother don't play games with me. I had to get my brains from somewhere and I'm going to guess that you have at least a fraction of brains yourself, what with convincing . . . how many is it now? Thirteen? Thirteen men to marry you? Heaven knows that it isn't your personality that won them over."

She sighs, apparently giving up any hope that I wouldn't press the issue. "I did it because I hated you," she admits. "Your father and I agreed never to have children. It was mutual. And then somehow, despite everything, we had you. Both of us were quite unhappy, but what could be done? There certainly wasn't any way that my pregnancy could be kept under wraps, the Zabini name being what it is.

"So we kept you, and we fought almost every day over who would raise you. Who would be burdened with the unwanted child? As soon as you were born, I knew that we were through. Your father and I . . . we simply couldn't be happy anymore. We never could decide who was to keep you, and I rather think that we were both trying to leave that day, only . . . he managed it first."

I suck in a breath, stunned. I can't even manage a reply. They . . . didn't want me. I was right. The whole time, I was right. Only, he didn't walk out on us—he walked out on me. I . . . I can't believe it. All that time, all those years . . . and he hated me up until the day he left. He probably still does if he's alive.

"Is—"

She cuts me off before I can finish my question, "—yes, he's alive. He wants us to get married again. He owled me this morning when news spread that you killed Dumbledore. Needless to say, you won't be welcome here any longer. It's a pity that my will can't be redone, but these are dark times. I suppose I will simply have to write you out of it when this war's over."

"You still hate me then?"

"No."

I open my mouth to retort, but again she cuts me off, this time with a finger.

"I said I hated you. I don't love you, but you're my son. I don't think there's a mother alive who can hate her own son for very long. I stopped hating you when I found you crying in a closet, whimpering about how badly you wanted your 'daddy'. I had to leave; I didn't know what was coming over me. I came back expecting to hate you again, but I never could. I kept you at arm's length, of course, but that was to ensure that I never started loving you."

Again, I'm stunned. She actually felt something that day: likely the worst day of my entire life? The day that I smashed my cake and set fire to my gifts? The day that smashed half of the dishes in the house, screaming at him for having left? The day that I cried my eyes out in a closet, feeling my heart tear and having no idea what to do about it? That day?

"Mother . . ."

"—But now you've gone and made it easy on us both," she interjects again, "you killed Dumbledore."

"Well, about that . . ." I begin, for whatever reason about to admit that killing Dumbledore was all a ruse, but she cuts me off again.

"You don't have to admit anything to me, boy. It's like you said: that brain of yours had to come from somewhere." She winks at me and then snaps her fingers again. This time, dozens of elves show up and push me towards the door.

"Oh, and Blaise?" she calls out just before the door shuts behind me, "Enjoy Azkaban."

* * *

I apparate to the edges of Malfoy Manor, just a short walk from the main gate and the wards surrounding the massive building. I'm not sure what I'll be doing here, but I need to bide my time until the moment is right to revive Dumbledore. I also need to make sure that no one is suspicious when I end up leaving to do exactly that.

I saunter towards the huge arching gate that tells everyone around just exactly how well the Malfoys think of themselves, a grimace on my face that should suffice for now. I've never been let in the gate alone before, and I now see what Draco meant during a discussion that we had years ago. The gate, he had said, required that all who are welcome also make a sacrifice before they pass. Sure enough, the gate's edge forms before my eyes to be a long and sharp blade with the inscription "sanguis", or blood.

Breathing in slowly, I run my hand down the blade's edge, wincing as I feel it slice through my palm. I glance down at my hand and quickly look away with a gag. I always have hated the sight of blood. To my further disgust, the gate doesn't open, and the knife appears to be half the silvery shade that it always was and half a reddish copper color.

_Think, Blaise, think._

Then it hits me: "sanguis". Blood. Sucking in sharply this time, I slice my other hand open, this time going slowly to ensure that the thing gets all the blood it needs. This time the gate swings open silently and I walk up the path, ignoring the blood that's running off my fingertips as well as the judgmental stares of the famous—and freaky—white peacocks of the Malfoy estate.

I enter the Manor as though it were my own, my footsteps thundering authoritatively and a scathing sneer on my face. I waltz past the main gathering of the Death Eaters and allow them to see the blood dripping down my fingers. They can come to whatever conclusions they want, for none of them could hurt my reputation, though I'm personally hoping they'll assume I killed something or someone. Fear is a powerful weapon.

As I make my way to my room to process everything, I'm pulled into a side hallway by the elbow. I turn to threaten whoever is at fault when I realize that my arm is being held by Narcissa Malfoy. I repress a smile and try to put on an indifferent air. The woman has always been kind to me, closer to me than my own mother.

"Blaise," she whispers sharply, "I need to talk to you."

"What do you want?" The demand is supposed to sound sharp, but Narcissa has always been perceptive and offers me a faint smile.

"Not here. Come with me."

She leads me down several hallways and up several flights of stairs until we find our way to the very top of the house. She glances around and then cautiously taps her wand against a portrait of an especially sour looking relative, presumably related to Lucius. As she taps her wand, she motions for me to grab the folding ladder that suddenly appears above our heads. Pulling it towards us, she quickly climbs up the ladder and beckons for me to do the same. The ladder snaps shut behind us and I'm left to take in my surroundings.

I seem to be in private bedchamber, but it's much less lavish than anything I'm used to. Instead of the large windows and heavily ornamented furniture, I notice a tiny beam of light shining in the center of the room from a small, circular skylight and a single purple threadbare couch. The only other thing in the room is a shabby-looking bed with an extremely ugly patchwork quilt stretched across it. On the bed rests a heap unidentifiable books and journals, an illegible scrawl marking them all.

"This," she breathes, passing me a particularly dusty one, "Is Lucius' personal journal."

I stare at her, wondering why on earth she's showing it to me.

"Take it," she insists, grabbing my hand and pushing my fingers to grasp it. "It could well help in bringing about the Dark Lord's downfall."

"I . . . I think you're a little confused," I try. "I'm a follower of the very thing you're trying to bring down. I killed Albus Dumbledore."

Narcissa sniffs in amusement.

"Don't believe me?"

"You would have to be drunk on power to believe such a tale. The Blaise I know would never kill anyone except in self-defense."

I snatch up the book and wordlessly leave, the staircase snapping behind me and a smile fighting for control of my features. Truly that woman is a breath of fresh air amidst all this fear and hatred.

Soon enough, I find myself on my bed once more, my mind replaying the last several days' events and worrying about Draco. He really does look awful, and the way he looks at me—I wonder if Hermione has gotten through to him yet.

_Hermione_! I feel a stab to my heart as I wonder if she's okay. I wonder if Theo's okay. I even wonder if Ginny is okay. It's too late for that, though, for tomorrow it's off to Azkaban for me. I gulp nervously.


	19. An Unfillable Void

**Chapter Nineteen: ****_An Unfillable Void_**

I glance about uneasily, trying to assure that no one is watching me now. I've witnessed some pretty uncomfortable breakdowns in front of the famed Headmaster's tombstone already, and I don't think that any mourner would be particularly excited to see me lingering about. Slowly, I creep out of the brush at the outskirts of the gravesite, trying my best to be silent. Still, I rather doubt that the grave's visitors have thus far been aware of their surroundings.

Trying to gulp away the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I step out into the sunlight and onto the patch of freshly dug earth that marks my target. It feels so strange to be robbing a grave, and I shudder more than once before finally taking my wand from my pocket to remove the dirt. Normally, working with dirt around a grave like this should be done by hand with a shovel—a customary sign of respect in the wizarding world—and a part of me feels like I should be doing that now. Time is short, however, and he's not really dead anyway. Still, it feels like I'm ruining something sacred as I begin, soundlessly levitating the earth and to create a pile near the side of the gravestone.

I really don't want to think about my future right now, so I try to point all of my focus on the motion of the wand, pushing myself to create shapes with the soil as lift it into the air. It helps me to really focus on only the wand work; I refuse to break down now and a wandering mind could be my undoing at the moment.

I continue to glance around occasionally, but to my relief visiting hours seem to be over. The students of Hogwarts have all returned home for the summer by now, leaving only the occasional staff member or mourner on the grounds anyway, but I like to be prepared for anything. There's also a part of me that wonders if any of my fellow Death Eaters have caught on to my plan. If they find me here, they won't hesitate to bring me to the Dark Lord himself, and there is no mercy to be found in him.

Finally, the last of the dirt is removed and I can begin the hardest task. I need to lift Dumbledore's coffin from the ground wandless, as those in charge of laying the Headmaster to rest decided it was the best way to safeguard against Death Eater raids; and I can't deny that the possibility of a particularly overzealous of the Dark Lord's followers trying to bring back Dumbledore's body as a souvenir is at least possible.

I close my eyes to concentrate and push away the unease that's wormed its way into my stomach. I push away the pain of seeing Draco's face and the fear for the rest of my friends. I push away the worry that the Dark Lord will win anyway and the twinge of regret I still feel for becoming one of them despite anything I've said. I push away the anguish and confusion over everything that my mother said to me during our last meeting and the worry that something about this plan will go wrong. Finally, I push away my extreme terror concerning Azkaban and the Dementors that live there. This is hard to do, but it's necessary.

Now, I picture a coffin rising from the earth and floating gently to the ground. I picture it several times, imagining Dumbledore's body the last time before I open my eyes and mutter "Accio". My magic doesn't fail me; and I sigh in relief when the coffin finally settles onto the ground. Making quick work of opening it, I gasp before sighing slightly in relief to see the man in pretty good condition for being half dead. He looks as though he's only sleeping and I could almost swear that he's going to laugh jovially at any second.

Carefully, I remove a small vial of Wiggenweld Potion from my robes, thankful that Death Eater's at least understand the necessity of pockets. Removing the cork, I recite all that I'm planning on telling him.

He'll probably try to dissuade me from turning myself in, to which I'll respond with, "Sir, my time would be much better spent spilling my guts to a disbelieving ministry. They need to know the things that I know, the things that I have and haven't done: even if it costs me my life."

That, of course, will be all the resolve he needs to let me do it, but I imagine that he won't stop there. He'll probably flatter me in some way, hoping that I'll give my allegiance to him. My allegiance is with what's right and has been for some time, but contrary to popular opinion, doing what's right doesn't always equate to Dumbledore. If he calls me a hero, I'll respond accordingly.

"I don't need flattery," I'll tell him. "It often serves only to cover lies and build shaky friendships. I'm not doing this to be remembered as a hero. I'm not doing this to be remembered at all.

"I was never even meant to be here," I'll continue. "I want this life so desperately, but it can't be without those that I care about: without the rest of the lives to live it with. So, I'm fixing it. Maybe I won't be around to share that world, but it needs to be there. There's no point without such a world. I'm not a hero, sir."

He'll probably then use this to try and assure that I understand where he's always been coming from with his chessboard tactics, but Dumbledore's motives have never been that simple.

"Sir, things are beyond even your control now," I'll tell him hopefully without the smirk that I'll have to bite back, "Your plan was to be dead. With all due respect, I like my plan much better."

Then he'll have to acknowledge that it seems likely that I'm not terribly fond of him. He'll probably force the point, asking me to confirm or deny that I dislike him. However, I'll simply leave him to make his own conclusions, disapparating away to the Ministry of Magic, where my life will effectively end.

I run my fingers through my hair nervously, take a deep breath, and pour the contents of the bottle down the "dead" man's throat, waiting for his revival. It should only take a couple of seconds, but I can't leave until I'm sure that he's okay. I start counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I try to remain calm, but as five turns into thirty, I begin to sweat. He isn't waking up! Why won't he wake up? I bite my lip anxiously as I continue to count.

Thirty-one.

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five.

Desperate, I begin to shake his shoulders, but they remain limp in my grasp.

_Come on, Professor, _I mentally beg, _You have to wake up!_

Sixty-two.

Sixty-three.

Sixty-four.

Sixty-five.

I frantically try to wrack my brain for an answer to why this is happening, but I can't think of anything. I brewed the potion correctly. I had to have brewed the potion correctly. I mentally run over every step of the process, checking myself for the hundredth time, but I can find no error.

Eighty-eighty.

Eighty-nine.

Ninety.

When I reach one hundred, I stop counting. It's taken far too long. I stare helplessly at Dumbledore, willing him to wake up and be okay, but I know from my reading that it's hopeless by now. Professor Dumbledore is dead. He's really, truly dead.

I feel this despair start to grow inside of me, a despair that leaves every pain I've ever felt in the dust. Dumbledore was supposed to vouch for me; he was supposed to be my only hope. No one will believe the word of a Death Eater, not one who killed Dumbledore. Not only that, but I wasn't supposed to be a killer. I wasn't supposed to do something like this: something that I'll never shake.

_I killed Dumbledore_.

I'll go to Azkaban—maybe even without a trial—and receive the Dementor's kiss. I'll be stuck, just like Snape had said in his lecture all those months ago. I'll be the victim screaming in agony throughout eternity, my mind begging for things that my body will never listen to again. I'll be that stupid and mindless cat-like thing from my nightmares; and all because I killed Dumbledore. I _killed _Dumbledore. I'm a murderer and Dumbledore is dead. Dumbledore is _dead._

_Shit._

_What have I done? What have I done? _I pace frantically in circles like it's the only thing keeping me sane. Correction, it _is_ the only thing keeping me sane. I jerk my hands forcefully through my hair and clamp my teeth down on my lip: anything to attach me to reality. I breathe in and out shakily and fast, unsure of what I'm even doing anymore. I've always had a plan. There's always been a plan. There is always a plan. Why isn't there a plan? What do you do when the plan—your carefully handcrafted, mastermind plan—falls apart? When it all turns out to have been for nothing? The truth is that I don't know.

_Think, Blaise, think _I silently command myself, but it's pointless. My mind is spinning and whirling past thousands of images and ideas, failures and futures: none of them solve my dilemma. I'm just about to fall apart; and probably only seconds from completely losing my mind. Where is Theo when you need him? Where is anyone when you need them?

_Oh, that's right,_ I remind myself bitterly, _I've pushed them away_.

"Blaise?" I'm snapped back into reality as suddenly realize that I could be in great danger of being discovered, what with Dumbledore's open casket and a rather large pile of dirt to my left. I'm also dressed as a Death Eater to a T with my long robes that billow in the breeze, my Dark Mark occasionally peeking out as the wind blows the sleeves around, and the mask laying not far from the brush I crawled from moments ago.

"What do you want?" I growl harshly, whipping around to face . . . "Ginny?"

She looks a wreck, her oversized black gown hanging awkwardly off of one shoulder, the hem muddy from dragging on the ground. Her face is streaked black with makeup that follows distinctly tear-like patterns, her eyes red at the edges and slightly swollen. Her hair is barely held back into the semblance of a braid, chunks falling out at her shoulders. She holds herself tightly with her arms, a wand clutched in her left fingers.

Her eyes widen for a second when she takes in the scene before her, but the feisty Weasley girl swiftly falls into to what looks like disinterest. After a long pause, she removes her wand arm from its position around her shoulder and points it weakly at me, the lack of fight left in her astonishing. Where is the spitting, fierce redhead that strikes fear into the heart of anyone who dares get in her way? Before me all I see is the shell of a broken child, yet another thing ruined by this terrible war.

"B-Blaise," she questions, "I thought . . . I thought I could . . ." She looks down at her feet, her wand dropping to the ground with a thud.

"Ginny," I begin as gently as possible, my heart breaking for this girl, but the rest of my statement dies at my lips, for I notice that she's shaking. My mind instantly snaps to that bathroom and to Draco Malfoy, shaking with sobs like I'd never seen before; like something inside him was broken beyond repair.

Without hesitating, I pull this girl into my arms. I didn't do anything when Draco fell apart, and I'll be damned if I do nothing now. As though physical contact let lose whatever was holding her back, she beings to sob and wail. She pushes her face deep into my shoulder and I feel the moisture against my shoulder as her tears soak my robes. She sniffs unprettily, but I don't really care. People who cry ugly are the kinds of people that you know are truly alive.

I'm not sure how long we stand like this, but when she pulls away the tears are gone. All that's left from her breakdown are the smudgy streaks left over from her makeup. I pull my wand from my pocket and whisk these streaks away, leaving her eyes slightly red, but otherwise without a trace of misery.

"What's happened?" I tentatively ask when she seems fairly calm. "School is over, Ginny. You should be home right now with your family."

She sighs. "That's just it. I don't want to be home. I don't want to be anywhere. Mum's so sad; dad's so worried . . . I just, I can't breathe. Dumbledore's dead now and no one knows what to do? What should we do, Blaise?"

"I . . ." I gulp guiltily. So I'm the idiot that ruined everything; me and my stupid plan.

Suddenly she pushes away from me frantically, falling onto her back and desperately trying to escape on her hands and knees. This is exactly what happened after the incident at my mother's, and I realize that she probably just remembered who I am and what I've done. Her eyes are so full of terror that my heart aches for the days when everything was so much simpler, where the Dark Lord wasn't even a consideration. I miss the days when everything was so calmly pointless, so mundane. I miss the laughing first years, the gossiping fourth years, and the traditional scowls of the sixth and seventh years who think they're better than everyone.

Everything I've done . . . I crash to my knees and press myself against the ground, praying that it won't let me fall apart. I killed Dumbledore. I set out to save the world and instead I have destroyed it. I was right to say that I'm not a hero: I'm a villain. I am the very thing I loathe and the very thing that everyone else ought to loathe, too.

"Blaise?" I look up into Ginny's face as she peers over at me, a quiet confusion settling over her features.

"Yeah?"

"You killed Dumbledore?" It comes out as more of a statement than a question, but I know that she wants an answer.

"Yeah." The silence that follows only hurts me further, and I begin to wonder again what on earth I am to do. I killed Dumbledore. That's unforgivable, of course she hates me. She'll never speak a word to me again. Unless I am wrong, and I am never—

"—Blaise?"

I stare up at her, unsure of what to say. Simply speaking to me after I admitted something like that; it's . . . well, it's incredibly merciful.

"Come with me," she continues without hesitation, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. "Come to the Burrow."

I feel a grimace take over my features. "I can't."

"And why not? I mean—"

"—I killed Dumbledore, Ginny!" I wail before calming myself and trying again, "I didn't mean to do it, but it doesn't matter anymore because I **did **kill him. They'll all hate me, and they could never trust me, not after something like this. Besides, I'd only get in the way."

"What's the alternative, though?"

I tilt my head, considering. What other options _do _I have? I suppose that there are only three alternatives to Ginny's plan. I could become a full-fledged Death Eater and devote myself to the cause, which besides completely contradicting my morals, would also likely end badly should the Dark Lord fail. I could also stay here and allow myself to be found by the Dark Lord, which would cause him to become suspicious and possibly distrust me anyway, likely leaving me to suffer torture until I'm begging him for death. Or, I could turn myself in and go to Azkaban, which would definitely end in me receiving the Dementor's Kiss.

"I . . . I don't know." It's all I can say because I can't fathom what other better alternative there is than facing everything I've done like a man. I need to apologize—beg for forgiveness—and hope that they'll accept me, or at least accept my services.

Ginny smiles slightly in a comforting way before turning and lowering the casket back into the ground, swishing her wand in precise movements so as not to disturb the dead. Then she flicks all the dirt back above it and repositions the tombstone so that the place looks completely untouched. She turns again to face me.

"It's settled, then. Everything is settled." She nods somberly. "Look, I know you're scared. I'd be worried if you weren't scared. But I promise that my family will come around. You just have to prove to them that you can be trusted."

I try to look brave, but there's a reason I didn't end up in Gryffindor.

"And—" she adds, "You owe me an explanation. You said—no—you _promised_ that you would tell me everything, Blaise Zabini, and you will have to come through if you expect me to take you to the Burrow." She glares at me, that Weasley determination settling over her features. It's slightly relieving, honestly, to see her acting normally.

"Okay, okay!" I raise my arms up in defense. Then, more gravely, I continue. "Let's do this. Let's go to the Burrow." I take her now outstretched hand and allow her to side-apparate me.


	20. Plans Change

**Fair warning, this is most likely the second to last chapter. I'm planning a sequel, but it's going to take some time as I haven't even started the actual writing process. So if you want to have this vision of perfect before I destroy it for you, you might want to not read the next two chapters until I start the next story. Anyway, enjoy chapter twenty.**

**Chapter Twenty: ****_Plans Change_**

My feet hurt. It seems trivial with all that's happened to have this thought; but it's all I can force my mind to focus on despite everything that has happened. I should be worrying about where I'm going, or possibly about the redhead that I know is behind me even though I can't see her and all that's likely running through her head right now. She did, after all, just watch her house burn to the ground. Worse, the ominous Dark Mark hung above it, the symbol that means death, and not the fairytale kind of death that you can bounce back from and be just fine and dandy. Everything about the experience was simply too real.

"Oof!" I grunt as my toe slams into a root and I hit the ground with a thud, clumsily feeling my way around in the dirt.

_Great, _I think to myself, _Now my feet feel worse_.

I feel a hand against mine and allow Ginny to help me stand, though not without biting back a curse.

"Kingsley," Ginny asks for the thousandth time, "Is this really necessary?"

The "this" to which she refers is the fact that I've been magically blinded with a rather painful jinx that coated them in something that stings. "This" also refers to the fact that I'm being led by a rope like a cow, headed off to who knows where. Why, you ask?

"You'll forgive me of course, Blaise, but I cannot take the risk. You can't know anything until I've placed you under Veritaserum and can prove your loyalty."

_Stupid Kingsley, _I think, but I don't voice this thought mostly because I know that he's right. In fact, if our roles were reversed, I'd probably treat him worse than he's treating me now.

"How much _longer_," I whine. Then I promptly smack into him, as he's stopped. I can feel him glaring at me.

"Please, Blaise," he says with a weary tone, "Be a credit to yourself and at least _attempt_ to behave like an adult."

I hear a sniff from behind me and suddenly feel a bit guilty for my antics. Ginny has lost a lot, and I'm being insensitive. I've been trying to focus on trivial things instead, but truthfully, the scene is stuck in my head on loop just as much as it is in hers. However, during the last school year I've learned a lot about keeping your emotions under wraps. In my recent dealings, image is everything. Still, this skill does little to remove what happened from my memory.

* * *

I took Ginny's outstretched hand, a huge knot in my stomach and a nervous smile wavering on my lips.

_I'm so dead, _I thought to myself.

Surely the Order of the Phoenix wouldn't welcome Dumbledore's murderer with open arms: it would tarnish the man's good name. I expected hostility and possibly physical injury as well as a large dosage of Veritaserum. It's the only way to reconcile a traitor, and that's what I was: what I am. As far as any of them would see, I betrayed my heritage as a wizard and my duty to mankind.

Of course, there was Ginny, but would any of them take seriously the word of a child? Fifteen years old, Harry Potter's delicate little girlfriend, and known for a pointless stint of rage now and again. I didn't like my odds, but anything was better than going back to face the Dark Lord.

Whatever I had been expecting, I was wrong. As we arrived at the apparation point, the area was deadly quiet. It had a feeling of heaviness, as though something horrible had just transpired. I felt this cold like I hadn't felt in a long time and I drew my wand in anticipation, clutching the redhead's hand in support. We crossed hill after hill, and as we drew closer I swore that I could smell smoke. It wasn't a normal smell of smoke that puts you at ease and reminds you of long chats and even longer friendships. This smoke smelled of something else entirely. Like at Malfoy Manor, this not-quite-placeable smell encompassed everything with a scent that reminded you only of pain.

As the house came into view, all I could do was gasp and catch Ginny as she fainted. There—in a smoldering heap of destruction—was the Burrow. A large portion of the house had crumbled into itself, marked by large blackened splotches that spoke of powerful magic. The rest of the house limped pathetically around it, boards jutting haphazardly in various directions; the roof's thatch fighting a losing battle against the wind.

Worse than the house was the symbol that—while everyone dreads it—I've come to recognize with an unsettling terror. The snake slithered dangerously around the angry skull and an eerie greenish mist lingered over everything. As hard as it is to look at the horrible thing on my forearm, seeing it in the sky is a thousand times worse. I gaped mindlessly at the scene for several seconds before something worse caught my eye.

I swept Ginny into my arms bridal style and made my way towards the scene at an incredibly slow rate, the panicky desire to run away welling up inside to replace the knot that had been there only moments before. For there, leaning against the side of the worst of the rubble, lay the cold, pale form of Ronald Weasley. As close as I suddenly was, I could see the grime layering his clothes and the terror stretched across his face. This boy didn't die boldly: this boy died afraid. Still, he did die, and the thought wasn't close to comforting. I can't say that I knew Ron. In truth, I didn't even like him, but this . . . this was an injustice.

I nearly turned from the scene right then, but something caught my eye. Behind his limp body I noticed another tuft of red, though this red was singed in clumps, and—setting Ginny gently on the ground—shoved away some of the debris. My hand brushed a face as I pulled away the last clump, and I shrieked in response, backing away with the realization that this was Molly Weasley lying there, dead. I couldn't even muster the proper emotion for the scene, having seen so much death and destruction: so much of the Dark Lord's supposed cleansing of the world. This wasn't clean; this left a grimy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I swiftly scooped up Ginny and turned to leave, unable to stomach the scene any longer. It was then that Kingsley showed up, then that I fell to my knees and literally begged for my life, and then that he pulled me from the ground and jinxed me.

* * *

Every hour that passes as we walk seems to be longer. Long-distance walking never was big in the wizarding world and I find myself wholly agreeing with the decision to invent apparation and the Floo network. However, I know that apparation and the Floo network can be tracked. It takes a while to track apparation sometimes depending on the skill of the person apparating, but either way any sense of security is met with a twinge of doubt.

"Blaise," Kingsley whispers out of nowhere, "How much do you know about wandless magic?"

Ginny snickers behind me. "Hermione says it isn't possible," she says with some authority.

I laugh bitterly, knowing that Hermione is quite possibly dead or imprisoned somewhere.

"Funny you should say that," I say after several moments.

"_Caderilus_ is the incantation. The coating will fall from your eyes." Kingsley says this slowly, as though trying to decide if I can actually do it or am simply bluffing.

I push away thoughts slowly, first of the irritation about my current situation. Next goes the image of the dead Weasleys, Ginny's wellbeing, and the state of the Order of the Phoenix. I shove away my growing worry about Hermione and my concern for Draco. Finally, I push away the gnawing feeling I have about Dumbledore's death and the fate of the world now that I've failed. All my focus instead goes to an image of a waterfall: falling and falling in an endless cascade of purity.

"Caderilus," I mutter. My vision clouds a bit, but after a second incantation, it clears until I can see my surroundings. I breathe heavily in relief, trying to take in everything at once. We're deep in a wispy sort of forest that has too many trunks and not enough leaves. Still, there's enough wood around that I can't see anything past it and the leaf-covered ground beneath me. Before us lies a path that's strewn with brush and a few upstart trees, fighting their way to the spindly standard of perfection set by their forest home.

It's almost . . . quiet here. It's quiet in a way that the wizarding world never could be. There I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, always on the alert for potential allies; but more than anything for potential threats. There I'm stuck in this perfect mold that I've created for myself; the mold that causes the things I love to hate me and the things that I hate to love me. It's not so here. The utter, complete, and somehow warming silence leaves me—for the first time in months—at peace.

"This is . . . beautiful," I breathe, a slight smile skirting my features.

"I could almost forget myself out here," Ginny adds in the same awed tone before switching to a darker one, "Almost."

I glance over to see Kingsley staring at me with what I think is . . . concern? I wonder again at the motives of people: what causes some to show this unmerited mercy? Everything I've done . . . yet somehow there is understanding; somewhere there is compassion.

"It's incredible that such a place could exist during these dark times, isn't it," Kingsley finally mutters as though to himself. He swiftly stiffens and repositions his feet, a grim look sweeping across his face.

"You're curious—I am certain—as to the reason that we're standing in the middle of a forest instead of fighting at the front lines."

I glance at Ginny and we both nod in affirmation.

"This had to be safe, you see. This is the only place to do it."

Ginny voices the obvious question before I'm given the chance, "And what is 'it'?"

Kingsley ignores her and brushes past us, grabbing his wand from his robes and smoothly casting spells in circles, warding the place. This is important, then. He now transfigures one of the many leafless branches around us into a low table and casts levitating charms to remove the leaves and moisture from three spaces around the table, presumably our seats. Wordlessly, he settles his wand back in his pocket and drops to the ground, his legs crossing with a practiced agility.

Ginny and I make to follow suite, and at Kingsley's wordless command I sit opposite both of them. The word 'Veritaserum' suddenly pops into my head and I swallow down the lump that forms in my throat at the thought. He had said that he couldn't trust me, that I needed to prove my loyalty. He said that I would have to be put under Veritaserum, and I can't see that there's another option.

"I'm ready," I stiffen my features, trying to appear emotionless and calm.

Kingsley nods in understanding and removes a vial from his robes. Uncorking it, he reaches across the table, placing it in my hand.

"Drink."

I would be lying if I said I wasn't trembling. But it's not like I have much of a choice. The smooth liquid slides down my throat. In an instant I can feel a buzzing quality to the air and a lightness that surges through me, for all my barriers and reservations have vanished. It's not a particularly nice feeling.

"Blaise, I need you to tell me a few things. First, did you kill Dumbledore?"

"Yes." I answer without hesitation, a freakish fervor to my answer as though I were happy to be a murderer.

"So you mean to say that you intentionally killed Dumbledore and feel no remorse?"

I never thought that Veritaserum heightened your emotions, but it's all I can do not to cry as I answer. "No, I didn't mean to. Everything's gone horribly wrong and I feel more guilt than I've ever felt about anything; more guilt than when my father left me." I can't believe I just admitted that, but there is no holding back with this stuff.

"And what was your original plan?" Kingsley raises his eyebrow expectantly.

"To save the world."

Kingsley mutters something under his breath and I feel the weight of reality returning as though I were rushing back into my own body with its secrets and lies. The unrestrained truth, while freeing, isn't the slightest bit comfortable and I'm happy to be done with my dose of it.

"I didn't believe him," Kingsley says with a solemnness that I've come to expect from the man, "When he said that you were on our side."

"Who?" I demand. I have to know where he got his information; where there's a leak.

"Why, Albus Dumbledore himself."

I simply stare, dumbfounded.

"So then tell us why we've been brought here," Ginny speaks up, thankfully filling the silence.

"I don't know how to say this. I wish . . . I wish things were different." Kingsley has a far-away look and blinks slowly several times.

"How to say what?" I can't help but speak up as a tendril of suspicion crawls into my skull.

"It's about Harry Potter."

"What of him?" I will him not to say the words, but I'm not at all surprised by what comes out of his mouth next.

"He's dead."

I gulp, an acidy burn scorching my throat. I feel my heart pounding against my chest, every drop of blood running through it again and again. Again and again, this pointless cycle of living and living some more, failing and failing, doomed to the same mistakes a thousand times over. Regret washes over me and I truly feel the weight of each choice I've made. It's unbearable.

The silence is suddenly so loud and yet so lonely. I break it.

"What now?" My voice sounds raspy in my ears and heavy in my bones, a feeling of thickness seeming to slow time.

"You save the world." Kingsley doesn't miss a beat.

I laugh heartily despite the look of horrified concern that takes over the faces of both Ginny and Kingsley. I laugh until tears stream down my face and my ribcage begs me to stop. I laugh until my tears become those of sorrow and then I cry bitterly. I must sound broken, because I allow my head to be guided by Ginny into her lap. She begins to stroke me like a small child, but I've lost any willpower to fight it and instead allow myself to be treated like a child.

I remain like this for some time, but it doesn't make me feel any better. I run out of tears and all that's left to do is move on, but I don't want to do it. I want to be done. I want to go home, though I know that there's no home to return to anymore. Maybe what I want is to die, though I know that I don't. I'm trapped in this terrible reality, and I know that the only way to go is forward. I swallow and take an enormous breath.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Ginny lifts up my chin with the hand that isn't stroking my head and stares into my eyes as though searching for some kind of hope in them. She's probably disappointed.

"Yeah . . ." I mutter, "I'll be fine."

"Okay then." Kingsley sighs, a dull sort of weariness shining in his eyes. I've seen that look before, but I'm not given time to contemplate it.

"You're going to pose as a Death Eater—"

"—what do you mean I'm—"

"—You're going to ride the wave of killing Dumbledore and blend in, finding Voldemort's weaknesses."

"What, like Harry Potter?" I demand incredulously, my eyebrow knitting themselves together.

"No. You're blending in as a Death Eater because you need to survive. You're the last one, Blaise! Don't you get it? You two—you and Ginny—you're all that's left. Look, most of the Horcruxes were destroyed. Voldemort has ½ of a soul. You must convince him to further divide it and entrust you with a piece. You'll need to destroy it and leave him with much less of a soul. Then you'll need to destroy him."

"How?"

"I . . . you're a smart man, Blaise."


	21. How It Ends?

**Chapter Twenty-One: _How It Ends?_****_  
_**

_ "__. . . Then you'll need to destroy him."_

_ "__How?"_

_ "__I . . . you're a smart man, Blaise."_

I pause, ready to accept my mission as I always knew I would. I take a breath to continue with the plans and to iron out all the details when I notice Ginny.

_What have I done? _I think to myself for the millionth time.

I look up to notice that Kingsley's talking again, but suddenly this is much more important.

"—What of Ginny?" I demand.

Kingsley abruptly stops, glancing at me briefly before gazing intently at his feet.

"You know as well as I do what they'll do to her," I insist forcefully, "Her family is known for its blood treachery and open opposition against the Dark Lord. You must have thought of _something._"

Slowly, his eyes lift to meet mine; but what I'm met with is a look of sorrow, the look one gives to a martyr.

"You can't mean . . ."

"No, I don't mean to doom her. She wouldn't survive any longer than they felt like torturing her."

"So, what then?"

"There's only one way, Blaise."

I glare at him. "_What _way."

Kingsley twitches and sucks in a quick breath, "My congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Blaise Zabini."

"—Excuse me?"

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know that he's right. It's the only way. I'm a highly celebrated Death Eater, killer of Dumbledore and allegedly my own mother. In the eyes of the Dark Lord, she's a lowly blood traitor, tainted by the sins of her family. They would like nothing more than to make a public example of her, and they will . . . just not as they would've originally planned. If I go and request her—remind him of the importance of pure bloodlines, the fighting spirit of the Weasley family, and the purifying quality of the Zabini name—he'll likely give her to me. We'll marry publicly and that will satisfy him . . . show them that everyone is subject to his new regime. They'll never take her seriously—not for years, anyway—but it will keep her safe while elevating my status.

Still, I can't help but feel guilty. Ginny, who's already been through so much—now roped to me and a game of power. She'll have to learn all the social codes that the Weasleys have long abandoned. I'll have to teach her to be a "perfect" pureblood wife, something she no doubt abhors. I am okay with throwing away my own life. I had, after all, planned on Azkaban. This . . . this isn't fair. Ginny never signed up for any of this, she's just in the wrong place and the wrong time.

"Ginny . . ." I don't dare to look at her.

Words just don't seem adequate, and the room falls silent. I won't be the first to shatter it: I don't have that right. I don't have it in me to force one more thing upon her. It's Kingsley who speaks up first.

"You have to decide now, Ginevra. You're an adult now, whether officially or not. You make your own choices. You don't have to marry Blaise, but I'll have to erase all memory of the wizarding world and place you in a muggle home otherwise. If Voldemort reads your mind and learns any of this, it jeopardizes everything."

"I . . ." Ginny falters.

I chance a look at her face, and I watch as surges of regrets, grief, and fear overcome her face.

"I promise I'll take care of you, Ginny," I suddenly blurt out, and I find that I mean every word, "I won't leave you. As long as I'm alive, I'll make sure you're okay."

She throws her hands to her sides. "And what of love?"

I sigh, full of remorse. "I . . . I don't . . ."

"Don't what?" This time her voice comes as nothing more than a whisper, as though she's desperate to hear what I have to say.

"I don't expect you to love me. I know you loved P . . . Harry. I know this is a lot, and I know that it will take time for either of us to walk away from this. I'm a wreck, Ginny, and to pretend otherwise is pointless."

"Oh."

"—But," I interject, "But maybe, given enough time and enough healing, maybe we could learn to love each other. Maybe . . . maybe I could be capable of loving you the way that a husband should love his wife after all. I want to make this work, Ginny."

She looks conflicted, glancing wildly from me to the door and back to me. I know it's a lot—I know we're not ready for this—but it's the only way now. I don't want her to have to sacrifice her magical heritage, it would just be one more thing on my conscience. I have to convince her that I mean it.

"I want to do this right." I stand up to my full height before dropping to one knee. I grasp her hand in mine and bring my lips to it. I never would have done this, ever. I would never have married; made sure that the Zabini bloodline was over for good. My parents and their mistakes would be practically undone for future generations. No one else would ever have to suffer the same things I did. I wanted my parent's legacy erased. I wouldn't have hit one knee. I don't hesitate now.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

Apparently, I did something right, because I receive a small smile from her, and she nods slowly.

"Blaise . . ." she falters, looking at me questioningly.

"Augustus," I provide.

"Blaise Augustus Zabini, I will."

I glance over at Kingsley and notice the dull look in his eyes that I brushed over earlier. He swallows slowly as though hoping not to draw attention to himself. He's smiling, but somehow I don't believe it. His expression, it's . . . tainted.

I pull Ginny into an embrace, ignoring her slight gasp of surprise. It dawns on me that Kingsley is a loose end, and he knows it. I suddenly recognize where I've seen that dull glint before: in my own reflection. The look on his face perfectly reflects the one on mine when I contemplated my stay in Azkaban; my demise. Gently pulling Ginny away, I turn my shoulders to face him. Still, he just stands there, his expression giving away what his words won't.

"No," I shout at him, "I won't do it!"

"What are you talking about, Blaise," Ginny wails beside me.

As gracefully as I can, I turn again to face her. "He wants me to kill him," I admit softly.

A dark look fills Kingsley's features. "It has to be done. I'm a loose end. I want you to save the world, but it will have to be without me."

I open my mouth to growl a response, but Ginny beats me to words.

"I'll do it. I'll—"

"—No!" I hear the sharpness to my voice, see the flinch she tries to hold back, but hurting her can't be helped this time. "It has to be me. I've already killed once—"

"—You didn't mean to! You admitted that to us! You didn't mean to!"

"It doesn't—" I roar, but then stop myself, forcing my words to come out softer despite the emotions that are raging through me right now. "It doesn't matter, not to me. I killed Dumbledore, and whether I did it on purpose or not—whether he meant for his life to end or not—it doesn't change what happened. I've already walked that path and let me tell you, you can't shake something like slaughter. When you've done what I've done, it stains you. I don't want you to have to bear that kind of weight. This is something that I must carry alone. Let me do this, Ginny. Please."

Ginny looks like she wants to say something, but she stays quiet. I want so badly for her to understand, but it's more important that she allow me to do this. I _need _to do this. I allow the needles of regret to slide their way into my heart, the stabbing pain of everything I've ever done. I feel the sting from Dumbledore's death, of my allegiance to the Dark Lord, of Draco, of betraying Hermione, of being in some way responsible for her and Harry Potter's death. I allow the waves of my disastrous failure to wash over me. It hurts. Merlin, it hurts! It reaches through so much of my life that there is nowhere to hide. I will not be responsible for blood on the hands of the woman I just swore to protect.

I turn to Kingsley, determination coursing through every movement.

"I'm ready. Goodbye, Blaise and Ginny, and good luck."

I nod solemnly and raise my wand. "Avada Kedavra." I really mean it, but there isn't even a shred of excitement.

I don't look at what I've done. I can't. Instead, I grab Ginny's hand and turn away, leading her farther into the woods. I hate the coward I've become but maybe that's how the world works. Maybe everything about my life was destined to fail, after all. I hope that Ginny will know someday that I tried. I wanted the best for the world, but I failed. I want her to know that maybe it wasn't my fault, after all, that maybe I did all I could. There is no certainty in my life; I see that now. I've lost so many things so quickly and I could easily lose her too. It's just . . . I want her to know the truth about me **_if we should part_**.

**The End.**

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**So there you have it, the entire story. Please review and maybe let me know what you think. Like I said earlier, I'm planning a sequel, but I literally haven't typed a single word of it, so it might be a while. Either way, thanks for reading my very first fan fiction and please do come back to read my second story whenever it appears. Bye!**


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